


How You Walk On

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Custody Battle, Drama, Getting Together, Insecure Steve Rogers, M/M, Parent Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, gifted AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-06-12 08:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 94,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19565878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: After Peggy passed away during childbirth, Steve found himself the sole caretaker of a baby who's not his.  No one else wanted her, and he couldn't make himself leave her behind, not when it was Peggy's wish that he take care of her.  So he forgot his life, gave up his dreams, and uprooted the few things he had to move away, closing down and hiding from the world as much as he could to raise this girl alone with almost nothing to his name.Now, nearly six years later, he's faced with a whirlwind of changes, all sparked by a handsome stranger needing his boat fixed.  Through the chaos that follows, Steve realizes a few things.  He discovers this darling child who he's loved since the moment she was born is far more than she seems.  He also sadly learns that you can't run from the past, no matter how hard you try.  And finally he figures out that sometimes if you just let people in, you find you have far more than you know.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [junker5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junker5/gifts).



> This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended. Please don't repost this story to other archives or websites.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** At last, the long awaited Stony _Gifted_ AU begins! I have no idea how long this will be, but I am solemnly promising myself to post it in smaller chapters than I usually do. I'll be basing this loosely on the movie; some things will be really similar and others not so much. No real warnings on this fic, save for my own incompetence and ignorance. I know nothing about boats or boat repair; let me just say that up front. I don't live in Florida. I also am not a lawyer, so forgive any inaccuracies in those regards. I do my best with research, but there are limits to what you can learn from the internet (as you guys know).
> 
> Extra special thanks for junker5, who has waited tirelessly for me to get to this fic and who is also beta-reading and helping with the plot. This one is for you, my friend!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy. Can I get through a fic without physically whumping Steve? Hmmm... Maybe I'll just need to pile on extra emotional torture instead ;-).

“Hello? Anyone here?”

Steve peeks up over the side of the boat. There’s a man walking around the dock below. That isn’t so strange in and of itself, even though the marina’s pretty quiet for a Tuesday night. What’s weird is the man himself. First, the guy’s dressed in a suit, and there aren’t too many men who wear suits in this part of Florida where everyone’s pretty simple and the weather burns hot and humid pretty much all year. Plus it’s later in the day, after five o’clock, so even if this is a local, he should be done with work.

But this doesn’t look at all like a local, which brings up the second even stranger thing: it’s an _expensive_ suit. Steve doesn’t know a whole lot about clothes, but he’s spent enough time in his past life trying to fit in with the elite, so he recognizes someone wearing money when he sees it. That is not a suit one buys at Men’s Wearhouse. It’s _really_ nice, really tailored to the guy’s slender form, a dark, charcoal gray three piece get-up that’s probably made of Italian silk or something fancy like that. The man’s wearing leather loafers that are not at all made for walking on a dock or through sand and a red tie that’s loosened from his neck. His face is perfectly tanned, shining just a bit in perspiration, and he has a dark goatee that’s expertly trimmed. He’s really quite handsome. Thick brown hair is spiked atop his head, but it looks more purposeful, like it’s been crafted with gel by a stylist than truly mussed. Steve can’t see the man’s eyes behind his sleek sunglasses, but his expression seems irritated.

Who the hell is this guy and what’s he doing _here_?

“Hey! Is anyone going to help me? Hello!”

Yeah, definitely irritated. Steve stares a second more and then turns back to the mess of engine parts he has on spread out on an old towel on the boat’s deck. He’s fully intending on ignoring this situation and getting back to work so he can get home. It’s ridiculously rude, but rich people do _not_ just come to this ramshackle marina. Where he lives in Florida is close enough to some seriously populated places (St. Petersberg and Tampa and such), but this town is much smaller and quieter, and shouldn’t a guy like this be looking for help in the big city? Again, this is just strange, and strange means trouble, and Steve’s dealt with enough snobby, arrogant assholes in his life to have had his fill for forever. So whatever this guy wants, he can bully and demean someone else into giving it to him. There are other marinas around the bay.

“Come on! I know you guys are open, unless that sign out front is lying. So can someone answer me?”

Steve closes his eyes. _Damn it._ He leans back over to the bench along the side of the boat and peeks again. The guy has walked back down the dock, so his back is to Steve, and he looks to be about two seconds from stalking away and leaving entirely. _Just let him go._

But Steve doesn’t. “Sir! Sir, hold on!” Grabbing a rag to wipe his oily hands, he stands and steps off the speedboat and onto the docks. The rich guy stops and turns back. Steve takes a deep breath, squinting into the setting sun, and walks closer. “Hi. Sorry.”

The rich guy frowns hard. “Oh, so there is someone here.”

Steve doesn’t really have an excuse. He can’t tell if the guy is still mad, but he doesn’t care. “Can I help you with something?”

That angry frown slips as the man just… _stares_ at him. Steve’s dressed in ratty, old jeans and an equally old brown t-shirt. He’s got engine grease and grit all over him, thick on his hands despite wiping them, streaked across his bare arms and clothes. He’s pretty sure there’s a smear on his face. He hasn’t trimmed up his beard in a while, and he knows his hair is messy (messy for real, not perfectly coiffed). Compared to this guy and his thousand dollar suit, he knows he looks like crap.

But the guy continues to just _look_ at him, and the moment turns from just strange to strange and really uncomfortable. Worry prickles through Steve, as it always does nowadays whenever he deals with people he doesn’t know, and he’s certain he doesn’t know the man, though he does look familiar. With those stupid expensive sunglasses, it’s impossible to see what he’s thinking, which makes this even more unnerving. What is the guy’s problem? Is something wrong with him?

Before Steve can ask or say something, though, the stranger seems to snap out of it and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I need help. Thank God. You’re a mechanic, right?”

Steve glances down at his dirty clothes. Isn’t it obvious, considering that the guy spent so much time studying him? “Yeah, I am.”

“I’ve been to every place up and down the bay and no one around here seems to have anyone on hand to actually fix shit in a timely manner, which is all kinds of stupid.” Steve wants to say something. Most of the marinas around these parts are family-owned, really small businesses, and this time of year there tends to be a lot of maintenance needs. Not to mention everyone knows everyone else, and nobody works quickly on much of anything, let alone for someone they don’t know. Things are laid-back and stuff gets done when it gets done. If this guy wants something fixed at the drop of a hat, it’s probably not going to happen. 

Obviously he does. “I have my boat here. Think you could take a look at it? And soon because I have a plane to catch.”

Now Steve’s the one staring. If the other marinas said no, it probably means there’s something seriously wrong with this boat that can’t just be fixed. Or they didn’t want to deal with the trouble of an out-of-towner. Or they didn’t want to take on a project for a client who’s used to having things done his way at all times. Whatever the reason, if their neighbors turned this guy away, the job may be more trouble than it’s worth.

Still, though, money is money, and Steve needs money. And this guy… He doesn’t talk the way Steve expected. He’s had more than his fair share of well-to-do folks looking down their noses at him, and this isn’t that. His words are demanding, but his tone isn’t. The man seems genuinely relieved that Steve is there, that he found someone, and actually hopeful that Steve will help him. “Sure,” he answers.

The guy grins, flashing perfectly white teeth. “Alright. Cool. Let me show you.” He turns, heading back up the dock boldly like he owns the place in his expensive loafers that don’t belong in a marina and clearly with no doubt in his mind that Steve will follow him. 

A bit perplexed, Steve does. He half expects the man’s boat to be already loaded into the repair slip, but it’s tied up at one of the more distant piers. Steve can see why right away. There is simply no way this glorious beauty of a _yacht_ can fit in their little rinky-dink repair area, let alone in the marina in general. It has to be at least fifty feet from bow to stern, a sleek, glorious, white marvel floating in the bay’s gently rolling waters. It’s just beautiful, big but not egregiously so, with a top deck, a sun deck, and enclosed area that Steve can see has a lounge in addition to a bar and other amenities plus the cockpit. He’s heard of ships like this, with a multiple staterooms and a galley and an atrium and so much _stuff_ , features that only the rich can afford, but he’s never seen one. With all the simple speedboats, fishing trollers, sailboats, and pontoons around the marina, this sticks out like a sore thumb, a luxury speedster among old, rusty clunkers. “Wow,” Steve breathes, standing with his hands on his hips and appraising the craft in awe. He looks at the huge spring lines securing the boat to the dock. “How did you get in here?”

“Someone helped. Big guy, kind of an asshole, but he liked the couple hundred bucks I paid him.”

Steve can’t think enough to try to figure out who that was of the marina’s common customers. The unspoken implication has him gobsmacked. “Wait, you’re piloting this thing by yourself?”

Beside him, the man stiffens a bit. “That a problem?” There’s an edge to his tone, which is weird, because it’s not like it matters in the slightest what Steve thinks.

Steve presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Nope. Not at all. What’s the matter with it?”

“One of the engines is choking,” the guy responds. “Noticed it yesterday when I was coming down the west coast of the Panhandle. I think one of the fuel pumps is malfunctioning, which is crap because this thing is brand new.”

“You came in all the way here on one good engine?”

“Got a plane to catch in Tampa.”

He said that before, but Steve’s not sure it’s that simple. Again, not that it matters. It’s none of his business. What is his business, though, is the fact that it’s becoming really obvious why no one else wanted this job. “No offense, mister, but this is a little beyond what we normally handle here.”

Now the guy’s face scrunches up in irritation. “So you’re turning me down, too?”

Steve bites his lip. He should. He isn’t qualified to work on an engine inside a ship this expensive and complicated. He’s really self-taught, had to be because of his situation, and he knows he’s pretty good at fixing boat engines (he’s been told by a lot of his customers and his business partner), but taking a job like this is pretty crazy, just like diving off the deep end. A yacht like this should be serviced by the people who built it, and this guy – who has the money to wear thousand dollar suits and shoes and buy multi-million dollar boats – can certainly afford that. So that brings Steve back to his original question: what the hell is he doing here?

Stranger and stranger.

But Steve is thinking way too much into it. It’s an opportunity to make money, and if this man is okay trusting him with it, somewhat desperately asking him in fact… “Nope. Can you show me?”

The guy nods, relieved, and steps onto the aft of the ship. Steve follows him onto the deck and then into the interior, already feeling way too poor and filthy to be touching foot on the ship, let alone actually, physically touching _anything_. The yacht is as stunning inside as it is from the outside. The floors are polished, gleaming wood. Everything is creamy white leather, too fancy to actually sit on. There’s an atrium at the nexus of the galley, the windows overhead creating this open, airy feeling that’s incredible. Stairs lead further aft, where the staterooms probably are. There’s more tech in this one area that Steve has ever seen on a boat: a massive flat screen TV, theater quality surround sound speakers, computer terminals built into consoles and walls, and electronic controls everywhere. It’s so futuristic and modern that it doesn’t seem possible.

This guy isn’t just rich. He’s really, _really_ rich.

Steve picks his jaw up off the floor. He’s better than being reduced to some gawking idiot. “Where’s the engine access?”

The man takes him down to the lower areas (which is again like walking through walls of money) until they reach the hatch to the engines. Steve feels uncomfortable all over again; he’s not used to having space to work and having an engine compartment look, well, _clean._ And techy. And he’s also not used to having someone watch him. But he shoves his worry, because he’s not about to seem incompetent or like some country yokel to this guy. So he steps somewhat inside the area (granted, there is way more space than normal but it’s still cramped) and starts poking around. The engine is, unsurprisingly, as fancy and expensive as the rest of the ship. There’s great rigging (better than Steve has ever seen), new filters and important meters mounted on the inboard sides of the twin engines, and unobstructed access to the seacocks (thank God). The engine mounts are seriously sturdy, and everything is secured, though not labeled (plus there are things he doesn’t recognize – this engine design really is a little above his skill-level). It takes him a minute or two to work through what everything is. “You said it’s choking?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure it’s the right one there, the one driving the starboard prop. Get it started, and it goes for a few seconds, but then it just dies on me. Thinking it’s the fuel pump, like I said.”

“Could be.” Steve checks the fuel lines. They look fine. In fact, everything looks good on the surface. “Or it could be the filter or the valves or the–”

“Right. Which is why I need a mechanic. If I had time, I’d do it myself, but I don’t. I’m already up shit creek without a paddle as it is with my PA. Well, she’s more than a PA, honestly, practically runs the company and my life, but still. I’m seriously behind on some stuff and have to go back to New York.”

Steve leans back out from the engine compartment, wondering the same things again. The man could fix it himself? Steve hasn’t heard of too many millionaires (or billionaires, for all he knows) who are into taking care of their own problems. And the stranger’s got to be important to have a PA and a company that needs tending, though it shouldn’t be all that surprising. Obviously all this money had to have a source somewhere.

Yet _again_ , though, it’s not his concern. Quickly Steve runs through his roster of active work orders. He knows right away he shouldn’t take this; he’s got a full workload, five or six boats that need repairs, and he doesn’t think his business partner can take on any additional jobs. Plus he should be home more, what with school starting. No, there’s no _should._ He _needs_ to be home. This isn’t a good idea.

But the guy looks genuinely desperate. “So can you handle this? I know, okay. I totally get that it’s kinda out of the ordinary for these parts, but I just need someone to get the engine working enough that one of my guys can sail this thing back up to New Jersey. If you need time, that’s fine, but, you know, within reason. And I’ll pay obviously. If there’s something more screwed up, you can just ignore it. A hack-job is fine. I just need it moving.”

“No, no,” Steve says. “I can look into it.”

“Yeah?” The guy gives a tentative smile, like this isn’t just an average business transaction, like there’s more than money involved in Steve’s choice. Like Steve is doing him a favor or something. Steve’s not.

So he nods. “Sure. Should be able to start looking at it tomorrow.” That’s pushing it, and he knows it, but he doesn’t stop with the promise. He’ll make it happen. “Let’s go back and we’ll do the paperwork.”

The man was looking ridiculously grateful, but now he seems a little annoyed and somewhat perplexed, like he shouldn’t need to do paperwork. Or adhere to the marina’s policies. Or be bothered at all to formalize anything. “Yeah, alright. Lead the way.”

Steve does. He climbs out of the yacht’s lower regions and back into the swankier areas, the rich man following him. That only adds to his disquiet. A bunch of thoughts are racing through his head, none of them calming or confident. _What if I break this damn thing? How am I even going to take it out to test it? What if I screw this up and this guy sues me?_

_What the hell am I doing?_

But he doesn’t back out, and the guy doesn’t seem to change his mind either, trailing Steve as they exit the yacht and walk back toward the areas of the marina that are crowded with boats. It’s silent save for the lapping of water against fiberglass and the evening bugs starting their nightly serenade in the tall grass and palms bordering the docks. The quiet makes the tension even worse, this whole thing even stranger and more awkward, and Steve can’t help but wonder why he’s taking a job he’s not sure he can do. He hasn’t done that since becoming a damn boat mechanic in the first place, but that was born from pure financial need. He needed a job to put a roof over his head and buy the things, because he had nothing when he came down here, including any idea what he was doing. So when he spotted Thor’s ad in a local newspaper of all the archaic things, proclaiming the would-be marina owner was seeking additional help to manage his new boat repair venture, he took the chance.

Five years later, Steve’s still taking the chance, and Thor’s every bit the character now as he was back then. Thor’s puttering around the outside of the marina store, just beside the mechanic’s shop. It looks like he’s working on a carburetor, probably for that speed boat he’s been tinkering with the last few days for a friend of his brother’s. Thor and his brother don’t exactly get along – they have this love/hate relationship. Steve doesn’t know the whole story except that they both don’t see eye to eye, even though neither one of them particularly gets along with their father, either. At any rate, Thor looks even more like a hobo today than normal with old beach shorts on (that have more than a few holes in them) and a stained t-shirt that’s shrunk from too many washings. His huge, blond mane is messy and clumpy with sweat (why he doesn’t just cut it, Steve doesn’t know – he can’t imagine living down here in this swampy hell with that much hair). It’s gathered into a sloppy ponytail, draped on shoulders that don’t seem possible. Thor’s a huge guy, looks every bit like the Norse god of thunder he’s named for with the beard and the strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. He seems sort of regal, and Steve knows he comes from money, heir apparent to some sort of Norwegian real estate empire, but he’s kind of a slacker and a goof. He swore that elite life off. It, again, goes back to his strained relationship with his brother (who’s not exactly vying for the company but is? Steve doesn’t know the details, and they keep changing anyway) and his estranged father. Apparently their mother’s death tore the family apart, and Thor fled here years ago. Steve likes him and his laidback nature a lot; after all, Thor was the one who hired him to be a boat mechanic when he had not a lick of experience.

When Steve and the rich guy approach, Thor eyes them in surprise and then suspicion. “Everything alright?” he queries in that deep voice of his.

Steve brushes him off. “Fine,” he says, and he takes their prospective client into the shop a little faster. Despite his good parts, Thor can be a little loud, abrasive, and off-putting, and Steve has come this far; he wants to secure this job. The bell above the door rings as Steve opens it and lets the rich guy inside. He shakes his head at Thor in a silent, friendly warning before following.

The stranger looks like he’s never seen so cramped or dirty a place. To be fair, the office is messy, cluttered, and there’s sand, grease, and grit everywhere. It’s so thick and engrained on the computer and counter that it’ll simply never come off. But the office is _not_ filthy. They have a little more pride in themselves than that. It just looks like a mechanic’s shop.

Not to a wealthy man, though. The man eyes the grimy computer keyboard. “You guys need to invest in some new equipment.”

And here comes the demeaning garbage. _This_ is what Steve expected. Rich people don’t know the world of common folk, that you can’t just replace stuff whenever it’s worn-out or even a little dirty or just because you feel like it on a whim. It’s insulting. This man is obviously used to buying his way through everything. It still doesn’t matter, though. Steve just wants to get the work order filled out and move this guy along. He doesn’t bother with the computer (the damn printer is out of ink right now anyway) and just grabs the work order form and a pen. With a sigh, he stands on the other side of the counter and starts filling stuff in. “Name?”

There’s a choked chuckle, a surprised laugh. Steve looks up, pen poised on the form. The rich guy is smirking, almost _sneering._ “Seriously? Seriously. You don’t know who I am.”

Steve’s skin prickles. “Should I?” he asks tensely.

The man finally takes off his sunglasses, revealing two deep, brown eyes. Right now they’re filled with amusement, but there’s intelligence there, sharp, _sharp_ intelligence. Lips twist into a new smile, and he cocks his head like everything should be so obvious. “I’m Tony Stark.”

Aside from that same niggling sensation of familiarity, that really means nothing to Steve, and this whole damn thing is putting him on edge. Is he supposed to know this? Again he wonders if he should just bail out. He doesn’t, though, stifling his annoyance and scribbling down a name. “Okay. Tony Stark,” he says, trying to keep his tone clean of ire. “Address, Mr. Stark?”

Stark looks even more entertained, arrogantly so, like Steve should know better than to ask these types of questions. “Eh, New York. California. London.” Steve gives a flat stare. “Really can’t be more specific.”

Even more frustrated and trying harder not to show it, Steve goes back to his paperwork. “Contact number?”

The man frowns a little playfully. “Sorry. Same deal.” Steve looks up again, trying not to glare. “What? My PA keeps telling me not to randomly give out my personal info.”

Is this guy for real? Maybe Steve’s read this wrong from the get-go and the man really is a jerk, making a big show out of wanting his help only to yank him around now. “I need some sort of contact number, sir.”

“I’ll just send someone down to get the boat when you’re done. Like I said.”

Steve sighs. “That’s not good enough. I mean, yes, you’ll need to do that, but what if there’s an emergency? Or what if I need to ask your permission about the work that needs to be done? I have to have a way to contact you.”

“ _Like I said,_ you have my permission to do whatever needs to be done to get it moving. The cost doesn’t matter.” That’s somewhat insulting, like the value of the work Steve will be doing really doesn’t even factor into his consideration. “You want me to write you a literal carte blanche?” The man reaches into his suit pocket like he’s going for his wallet or his checkbook.

Which is all kinds of ridiculous. “No,” Steve says quickly, very uncomfortable with the idea. “No. I just want a contact number. We’re not gonna sell it to anyone, alright, and if you’re concerned about security, we’ll shred…” He trails off because the man pulls something out of his inner suit pocket. It’s a business card, a nice-looking one, and on it is a logo, a sleek line that juts the opposite way in a powerful angle right above the words “STARK INDUSTRIES”. He stares a second, finally recognizing it. _Stark Industries._ The biggest telecom company in the country. They make cellphones and computers and a bunch of other prevalent technology. They work with the Department of Energy. They’re practically a household name. Steve feels pretty stupid that he didn’t make the connection when the guy said his name.

 _His name._ God, _he’s_ CEO of Stark Industries. He owns the company. That explains the money. This guy probably has a dozen yachts and private planes and mansions all over the place because _he’s_ Tony Stark. And now other things come to Steve, things he heard before but never really meant anything, like the facts you are aware of on the periphery about this celebrity dating that one or this famous person getting arrested for something or that important person making some kind of inflammatory statement. Tabloid fodder and that kind of crap. Tony Stark _is_ tabloid fodder. He is on magazine covers and on TV and on the internet and everywhere all the time. The media is constantly reporting on him, on what he’s saying and what he’s doing and who he’s doing it with. The guy is a playboy, a genius, a philanthropist, and probably one of the smartest, most powerful men in the country if not the world, but a playboy nonetheless. If the gossip rags are right, anyway.

_Get away._

“Sir, maybe this isn’t a good idea.” Steve hears himself say that. He didn’t really think to, and the words are just coming, the words he should have said from the get-go. “Maybe you should take your boat elsewhere, back to the dealer or something, or at least to–”

“Too late,” Stark says. “I just gave you my personal number, so now I’m committed, because even if you say you’re not going to sell that information, you might anyway because I don’t know a thing about you or this outfit, and, hell, I would. So at this point I might as well get what I came for.” Those brilliant brown eyes narrow. “Speaking of, let me ask you a couple of questions. First, seeing as how we’re about to enter a relationship of sorts, what’s your name?”

That seems too forward, dangerous even, which is all kinds of stupid because Stark is exactly right. “Steve Rogers,” Steve says guardedly.

Stark smiles, flashing those perfectly white teeth again. All the sudden his demeanor is shifting. This guy’s moods change like the wind. “Well then, Steve Rogers, here’s my second question.” And then he leans onto the grimy glass counter and says it, _actually_ says it. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

For a moment, Steve’s too shocked to react. That is the most awful, pathetic, clichéd pick-up line in the history of pick-up lines, the _joke_ of them all in fact, so he can’t tell if Stark is honestly flirting with him or pulling his leg. Like everything else about this whole exchange, it’s just incredibly strange and out of nowhere. And Stark’s not giving him any hints, still smiling but surprisingly unreadable, like he’s waiting on Steve’s response to decide how to proceed. Steve has no idea how to respond. He’s annoyed, _really_ annoyed, and pissed off at himself for not listening to his instincts and falling prey to this stupidity. He should have known better. He _does_ know better. There’s only one truth in this life, and that’s this: rich people treat poor people like shit.

But then, as the awkward silence goes on, Stark genuinely frowns. “That came out bad. Sorry. What I meant to say was–”

“Just sign here, Mr. Stark,” Steve interrupts, pushing the hastily written work order toward the other man.

Stark frowns even deeper. After another awkward beat, he takes the pen Steve’s offering. He stares at it like he’s confused – probably is since that’s just a cheap, old Bic blue pen rather than a fountain pen or some such – before sighing. “Okay, I feel like shit. I’m really sorry. What I meant to say was… I probably shouldn’t say it.” Steve just stares, though he feels the knot loosen in his chest, loosen just enough that he actually feels a little bad. Stark sighs. “What I _meant_ to say was you… don’t seem like the type of guy who’d be a boat mechanic.”

Unsurprisingly, Steve’s not certain how to take that. “Pardon?”

“You’re, well… I mean, _damn_. And I don’t mean that in a condescending way, okay. But… I mean, look at you.” The man gestures at him, and Steve’s cheeks burn, both in annoyance and embarrassment. He just shakes his head, dumbfounded. “Ever thought of being a model? Or an MMA fighter? Or basically anything else? Because you are way too–”

“I’ll call when I know what the problem is,” Steve says.

“– _ridiculously_ good-looking to be covered in crap all day working on other people’s boats. In the hot sun, no less. It’s a freaking _sauna_ down here – God – and there is not enough sunscreen in the world to protect skin as nice as yours. And you should have a hat on. You know, one that covers your face and neck.” Stark actually blushes. “I mean, so I’ve heard. About being in the sun all day. Need protection and all that.”

“I do wear sunscreen,” Steve replies evenly, wondering what the hell reality this is. Tony Stark, the wealthiest man in the world, is in his office and advising him on the proper ways to guard himself from the dangers of working outside. “And a hat. Usually.”

“You need to all the time,” Stark says, and the fact that he seems to genuinely care is even weirder. And off-putting. And strangely touching and exciting. He shakes his head. “Point is: there have to be better ways to make a living with what you have going. The looks are one thing, but you also seem too smart for this gig. And you also don’t have the accent. You don’t _look_ the part, no offense. Except for this.” Stark gestures again, this time at Steve’s filthy clothes. Apparently Steve’s concerns about looking like some backwoods yokel to this guy were rather unfounded. Stark shrugs. “It’s like a disguise, and it’s not all that convincing. Which means you’re doing this for a reason.”

Steve sighs, closing his eyes a moment and shaking his head. “Mr. Stark, come on. Can you just sign–”

“My PA? The one I’m always in trouble with? She claims I have seriously poor people skills, and I kinda do, to be frank. I’m brash and arrogant and eccentric, she says, and I don’t see people.” The millionaire – no, _billionaire_ \- leans closer on the counter, the contract seemingly forgotten. “But I think I see you. And you do not belong _here_.”

Now this whole thing is hitting too close to home. Steve sighs and grits his teeth. “Do you want me to fix your boat or not?”

“Oh, I do, darling,” Starks answers with another wink of white teeth. “I _really_ do.”

Is that another pick-up thing? Flirty to flustered to flirty again, at warp speed it seems. Stark really does have crappy people skills, so much so that Steve’s head is practically spinning and he doesn’t know what to say. “Then sign the work form.”

“Before I do that, I have one more question.”

Steve sighs again, exasperatedly playing along. “What?”

“Would you go out with me if I asked?”

 _Holy shit._ Despite all the weirdness of this exchange thus far, despite the terrible freaking _pick-up_ lines, that really comes out of left field. Steve’s pretty sure his jaw is back on the floor and his eyes are as wide as saucers. A cold shock of sweat blasts over him, and he just stares like a stupid idiot. This is unreal, and he can’t think, let alone come up with anything to say, for what feels like forever. Finally he stammers, “Wh-what? What…” Stark just cocks his head again, and that pisses Steve off. What comes then is harsher. “What are you playing at exactly?”

Stark doesn’t seem bothered by either his tone or his question. “I’m not playing,” he answers simply.

That’s even more confusing. “So… you’re honestly asking me then?” The other lifts an eyebrow slyly. Steve shakes his head, flabbergasted. This guy’s reputation truly precedes him. “For what? A date? A one-night stand? Who do you think I am?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Stark admits, and the angry comment that Steve’s about to make dies in his throat. Stark’s sudden flirty demeanor is gone again, replaced with what Steve can only describe as sincerity. “But I’d like to find out. Because you’ve got this… this quiet, damaged hot guy thing going on. Kinda like to know what that’s about.”

Steve has no idea what to say, what to feel. This guy is so out of the blue, pushy and nosey and bordering on totally insensitive, but somehow… _not_ at the same time. And that’s not just because no one’s shown interest in _him_ for what feels like forever. Not since Peggy, anyway. He hasn’t been on a date, been with _anyone_ in any sort of romantic capacity, since Peggy. That was six years ago.

But this is more than that, because Steve has to admit that, despite his brain telling him even louder, screaming at him, to run away from this as fast as humanly possible, he can’t make himself do it because his heart’s screaming something totally different. He knows why. He’s interested as well. He sees that right now, and not just because this guy is making a hell of a pass at him. He wants to know what’s up with him too, why he’s like this, out sailing a millionaire dollar yacht down in what passes for the middle of nowhere in Florida all by himself, why he’s _here_ when he has the money to have that yacht towed anywhere, and why he’s asking a random stranger out on a date when he’s _Tony Stark_. That’s… all kinds of insane, way beyond the type of rich person antics Steve has experienced in the past. And maybe the fact that Stark is basically trying to hook up with him in the middle of a business transaction should have alarm bells ringing, and it does – it _seriously_ does – but he can’t deny he’s really curious. And flattered.

Stark’s pretty hot, too. Not that Steve’s looking.

He’s _not_ looking. Because he’s not doing this. It has _“really bad idea”_ written all over it. So he opens his mouth to tell the guy no, but before he can, Stark is talking more. Stark talks a lot, it seems. “Look, I do need my boat fixed. That _is_ why I came here. Obviously. But I wasn’t planning on running into you. That’s kinda like an added bonus, like the cherry on top of… some crappy stuff? This rain cloud’s silver lining.” He doesn’t elaborate further. “And I fly by the seat of my pants. A lot. Pepper – that’s my PA – complains about that all the time, but you know what? My instincts are pretty damn good. They get me into trouble, sure, but they also tend to get me out of it. And my instincts are telling me that if I don’t at least try to talk to you, then I’ll–”

“Mr. Stark, please,” Steve says. “This is crazy.”

“Crazy is what I do, if you don’t know, which I’m thinking you don’t because you don’t really seem to know who I am.”

“I do know who you are,” Steve replies tersely, “but I don’t _know_ you. And you don’t know me, like you said, and I don’t – I…” Suddenly he doesn’t know what to say. He sighs in frustration and looks down at the work order. It’s still all filled out and ready. “I’ll take a look at your boat. Here’s the price. I’ll get it done tomorrow and give you a call and we’ll go from there. That’s what I’m offering, so… Look it over, if you want. Sign it. I’ll thank you to be on your way if you don’t.”

That’s a no without saying no, isn’t it? Steve thinks it is. It’s a no, and it should be, because this is ridiculous. This rich guy, who’s used to getting whatever he wants by just asking for it, is apparently asking for _him_ , all the sudden and out of the blue, and that’s not right or fair or anything he’s really prepared to deal with. On principle alone, he has to say no, because that’s the same bullshit sense of entitlement wealthy folks have all the time. He has no idea what Stark wants from him, but he’s not going to get it. Steve can’t be bought. He’s not dumb, and he’s not broken or damaged or whatever Stark said, and he’s not going to do this. And he _shouldn’t_ feel bad about that. He doesn’t owe this guy anything.

But… Well, there’s no denying this, either. He does feel bad. He can’t explain it. When he finds the courage to look up again, he finds those sharp brown eyes staring at him. There’s no anger in them, no hurt, at least not like Steve expected. In fact, Stark is back to being unreadable, and Steve doesn’t know how to take that. At all.

Then a dazzling smile curls Stark’s mouth, and he finally takes that cheap blue pen. “Tell you what, Steve Rogers,” he says, and he’s scribbling his name on the bottom of the work order without even glancing at its contents. “You do what you need to to fix my boat. Call me when it’s done, and _I’ll_ come back down. Me. And you can tell me then what you think about going out with me.”

Steve’s mouth falls open again, but no words come out for a second. He shakes his head until he manages something. “Mr. Stark, come on, that’s–”

“Only fair,” Stark finishes instead, popping the tip of the pen on the bottom of the order right at the end of his scrawled signature. “I mean, I’m a lot to take in, I’ll grant you that. And while I rush headfirst into stuff, I’m guessing you don’t. So you can have time, sweet cheeks. All the time you need. Plus if you fix my boat, that’ll get the pesky business transaction thing out of the way, and we can talk about the things that really matter. Like you and me having a good time together, and me buying you fancy stuff and way, _way_ nicer clothes, and you smiling for a change.” Stark taps the end of the pen very boldly on Steve’s nose before dropping it with a clatter to the counter. Then he flashes another million-watt smile. “Call me.”

Then he’s leaving. Steve doesn’t walk him out. He’s too shocked, standing there like a stupid statue and staring at the work order, at the name written at the bottom in sharp, angular, very stylized script. _Tony Stark._ Next to it, there are his own smudged fingerprints, like dirt juxtaposed with money.

That has him grabbing the contact and following Stark. The man’s already out the door and crossing the marina, and Steve is going to catch him, rip up the work order in front of him and tell him to find someone else, to never come back, but the second Steve crosses the door’s threshold and the sun blasts his eyes, he stops. Stark is already in the parking lot. There’s a _very_ expensive Audi there, gleaming in the light, as sleek and imposing as Stark himself. He’s getting into the driver’s side, but he spots Steve and offers a small wave. How the hell did the car get here if he came by his boat? Then Steve spots another car, a black SUV that’s imposing and screaming _“back off”_ just to the rear of the lot. Security. Because he’s Tony Stark.

And Tony Stark smiles at him. His sunglasses are back on, but Steve can picture the look in his eyes already. Smart and suave and charming and eccentric and so powerful.

And interested. _In him._

“Steve?”

Steve turns. Thor’s there. His expression is quizzical, blue eyes narrowed in confusion. He’s wiping grease from his hands on a rag as he comes to stand at Steve’s side. “Is everything alright?” Steve’s so addled that he doesn’t answer for a second, returning his gaze to the lot. The Audi is already pulling away, the SUV following. Thor shakes his head, watching as well. “Who was that? Aside from someone _disgustingly_ rich. Reminds me far too much of my father. And my brother. And all of my godforsaken family.”

The car is a bolt of red as it shoots down the road far too fast, the engine roaring as it accelerates. In a second, both the vehicles are gone. The tense knot of excitement and worry doesn’t let go of Steve’s belly, though, not even as he sighs and looks down at the work order, tracing Stark’s signature with his eyes. Stark didn’t even get the carbon copy of what he signed. Steve shakes his head. “A new client.”

“Truly?” Thor asks, incredulous.

Steve doesn’t answer as he turns and heads back into the office. He sets the work order to the dirty counter, feeling like he’s standing on the edge of some great precipice. It’s not the first time he’s felt this way, not even close, and it’s never a good sensation, to have this hint in your head that something monumental is about to happen, to _change_ , if you make just one choice.

Then he signs the work order to indicate he’s received it and sets it to the top of his active pile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for the excitement and support, everyone! I'm really thrilled to finally be writing this fic!

The old pickup truck rumbles and putters down the road toward the Seaside Manor apartments. The sky blue and silver 1982 Ford is grumbling more than usual as it pulls into the grass parking area. Steve sighs, grabbing the gearshift and putting the vehicle into park. He’s been putting off devoting some time to taking a look at the faltering engine. There just aren’t enough hours in the day.

Yet he sits there for a minute, just sits and stares and lets himself be tired. He didn’t really feel the fatigue until he left the marina after finishing up the engine he was working on and saying goodnight to Thor. The second he got into his truck, it hit, and it hit hard. With it came this sense of dread, like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He’s trying really hard to ignore it, and he was doing okay (the whole weirdness with that Stark guy actually proved to be a pretty good distraction on the drive) until he stopped here, right in front of home. Not that he’s ever thought of this place as home. Not completely. It’s just a bunch of single unit buildings, each one a separate apartment with one or two bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. They’re all in fairly decent shape; no air conditioning but clean enough with only moderately peeling paint and a small army of bugs. It’s pretty sad that he’s been living here for five years, and this is still all he can afford.

 _The best I can do._ He sighs, gripping the steering wheel, and watches shadows dancing in the main window of the slightly larger unit down the way. He knows who they are without even having to think. There’s a bigger one, slender and very obviously feminine with the way its hips are wiggling fast to the muffled music. The second one almost seems as tall as the first, but only because it’s dancing on a table. They’re both making like they’re belting lyrics into fake microphones, and they’re singing pretty loud. He can hear that even in his truck. He smiles despite how worried and exhausted he is. _“Single Ladies”_. The two of them love pretending to be Beyoncé.

“You plan on comin’ in or just sittin’ out here and broodin’ all night?”

Steve jerks in surprise and twists to see Bucky standing by his open driver’s window. His best friend is watching him with a knowing look in his gray eyes. Bucky’s always been able to read him like that. They’ve been together ever since they were kids, loud, rambunctious, and dirty as they ran around the streets of Brooklyn. Bucky took care of him back then; Steve was something of a late bloomer in terms of size and stature. He was a quiet, overly serious kid, so other kids tended to pick on him. Bucky stood between him and the bullies and jerks, a stalwart protector throughout their childhoods. When Bucky decided after high school that he wanted to enlist in the army, Steve of course went with him. He wasn’t about to let his best friend face something like that alone. Wherever they went, they went together.

At least until Steve met Peggy. That was toward the end of their enlistment, after they both served in Iraq with distinction. Steve didn’t re-enlist (much to the chagrin of the Army; they were basically offering him field promotions to becoming an officer to keep him, but he was in love, and nothing seemed more important than that), but Bucky did. And Bucky was okay with that, with going back to Iraq to serve by himself, because he’d give anything to see Steve happy.

Only Steve ended up alone, and Bucky ended up without his left arm, and they spent three years apart. Steve was struggling with his newfound situation, and Bucky went through some rather dark and difficult times after being so gravely wounded. His convoy was ambushed and utterly destroyed outside Kandahar. Despite his injuries, he was lucky; the rest of his unit was slaughtered. After returning to the States, he was honorably discharged, but a disabled war vet didn’t just get back up on his feet after going through trauma like that. Steve still felt like crap that all this – Bucky’s fall into depression and suffering with PTSD and struggling with alcohol and really having a hell of a miserable time post coming home – occurred without him there, without him even knowing. Steve left New York so quickly after what happened with Peggy, and Bucky spent six months recovering in an army hospital. They didn’t have any way to communicate. It wasn’t until Bucky’s sister tracked Steve down and emailed him about Bucky’s mother passing away that they reconnected. Steve returned to Brooklyn for the funeral, had to really considering Mrs. Barnes was another mother to him when he was a kid, and found his friend very changed, okay but visibly wearing far more scars than simply his missing arm. More a stranger than anything.

And Steve was a stranger to him too, with everything that changed in his life. Still, they quickly fell back into their old friendship, and there wasn’t much question about Bucky coming back to Florida with him. He didn’t have anything tying him to New York, not even the rest of his family. Plus, as he put it, the place had too many dark memories, things he did that he wasn’t proud of during his lowest points, so moving south with Steve seemed like an opportunity to wipe his slate clean and start over.

That was two years ago. Since then, since Bucky came back into his life and his heart (and not only _his_ heart), the ex-soldier has been recovering so much. The scars are still there of course; they will never heal completely. But the shadows are mostly gone from his eyes, and smiles come much more easily, and he’s back to the charming, confident, compassionate jerk he was when they were growing up, toughened and darker around the edges but still a really good man and a good friend who watches over Steve like it’s his God-given duty.

Hence Bucky’s knowing smile. “I got Chinese.” He lifts a brown paper bag in his right hand. Then he grins teasingly. “Not for you. For us. You’re gonna have to ask Nat real nice for some.”

Softly Steve grunts. He turns off the truck with its grumbling engine and opens the door. Then he gets out and just stands there. The bugs are making a symphony of singing and chirping and calling, noise coming from all around the apartment complex, but the sound of Natasha vociferously singing along with the pop song rises above the evening cacophony. Bucky grimaces when she misses a note. “It’s a wonder she manages to rescue any birds with pipes like that.”

That makes Steve chuckle. Natasha works for Seaside Seabird Sanctuary; it’s a really nice outfit, and they do a lot of good work rescuing local injured birds and wildfire as well as preserving ecosystems and educating the public. “I doubt she sings to them, Buck.”

They start walking toward the apartments. “How come you’re so late?” Bucky asks.

Steve grimaces inwardly, hoping his friend doesn’t pick up on it. “New client.” He’s not about to talk about Stark. It’s still bothering him, the garbage Stark tried and said. If he mentions the _date_ Stark proposed to Bucky, he’ll never hear the end of it. “Took a while to get things settled.”

If Bucky notices there’s something he’s not saying, he doesn’t question further. They reach the door to the apartment, and Steve automatically opens it for them. Bucky’s never been too interested in wearing a prosthesis for his missing arm, instead just knotting up the sleeves of his shirts where the limb should be. It hinders him some, but there’s something about the idea of going through with being fitted with a synthetic limb that’s holding him back. Steve suspects it’s the terror of doing it and what it means. Bucky doesn’t work; he’s living off disability and from Natasha’s (and Steve’s own) income. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but this is still something he hasn’t conquered through therapy and his sessions at the VA. He volunteers, and he helps Steve a ton (more than Steve can ever repay), but actually getting back out there and trying to rejoin society as a “functioning” member… He seems to think he can’t do it, so he doesn’t try. All he ever wanted to be was a soldier, and he can’t be that anymore, which Steve thinks is bullshit, because Bucky’s smart and strong and more capable than he knows. He can do anything if he wants to.

The second they step inside the apartment, the music gets significantly louder. Steve and Bucky stand at the entrance and watch Natasha dance and sing her way around the living room. Then she notices them and reaches over to tap at her iPod and shut off the song. She stands with her hands on her trim hips, panting a bit and mock glaring at them for interrupting the concert. Natasha’s gorgeous, no doubt about it. Fiery red hair’s gathered into a loose braid, wispy tendrils hugging her sweaty face. She’s small, lithe, and petite, with a body that looks like a cross between a ballerina’s and an assassin’s. She’s also very flirty and fun, but there’s this almost deadly grace to her (back to that assassin thing). Like Bucky, Steve doesn’t know her whole story. He thinks there must be something there, a darker past she’s ashamed of, but she’s never mentioned it, let alone explained it. She’s from Russia; that much is obvious, but she speaks with perfect English, and she seems to have no interest in going back, not to her country of origin or to whatever life she led before.

She smiles now. “He’s back with dinner,” she says breathlessly. Then she winks at Steve. “And with someone else.”

Her dancing partner is revealed as she jumps down from the table. “Steve!” Maggie cries, and she flings herself across the way toward Steve. Steve catches her, and the second he does, everything bothering him just melts away. Maggie’s always had that effect on him, since the moment she was born. Holding her soothes him, feels so right, and he’s so stupidly off-kilter right now that he takes a moment to just do that, to feel _right_ as he hugs her five year-old body tightly to his chest.

Of course, she’s too big for this now. She’s also far too independent, and she’s not as into snuggling as she used to be. So she squirms to get down, and he sets her back to her feet just in time for her to sock him in the thigh. “You’re late.” She stares up at him with huge brown eyes and mussed brown hair that’s always tangled up and knotted because she refuses to brush it. Her pink lips are curled in a smirk, and that expression is so familiar. She looks so much like Peggy, more and more every day. Those smart brown eyes and that thick hair. The shape of her chin and the angle of her pert nose. Sometimes Peggy is all Steve sees when he looks at her, and it breaks his heart just a little, that Maggie is all he has left.

Then he feels like the most ungrateful person alive for even thinking that. He always does when that melancholic thought ( _still_ , so many years later) creeps into his head. He’s so incredibly lucky to have that piece, and Maggie is far, _far_ more than a memory of her mother. She’s her own person, an amazing person, and Steve marvels at that more and more every day.

Right now she’s making a show of pouting. “You promised you weren’t gonna work late tonight. It’s a school night, you said.”

“I did say that. And I didn’t work late,” Steve replies, shaking his head at her. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” she says, pushing him away a little. She has so much fire, so much spunk. That she definitely got from her mother. “It’s already seven.”

“Ah, cut him some slack, cupcake,” Bucky says, bringing the bag in and setting it to the dinette table. “He was picking up a new job.”

Natasha blows out a breath to brush away the hair stuck to her brow with sweat. She comes over, and her eyes meet Steve’s again, and he can see the things she wants to say. They’re the same things she’s been saying, that she always wants to say nowadays with school starting tomorrow. She doesn’t go there, though, and instead goes to unpack their dinner from the bag. “A rich client, I hope?” She quirks a grin.

There’s no way she can know, but Natasha’s been like this since Steve met her. She has this almost preternatural sense of perception, like she can read people’s secrets by simply looking at their faces, and Steve would find that unnerving if she wasn’t so good with Maggie and Bucky. He tries to seem nonchalant as he nudges Maggie toward the table. “Don’t know. He was weird, I can tell you that much.”

Maggie looks up at him, wondering. “Weird how?”

“Just weird,” Steve answers. He gets plates from Bucky and Natasha’s cabinets and spreads them on the table. Then he’s scooping some fried rice onto Maggie’s plate. “Not from around here.”

She shakes her head, digging into the rice enthusiastically. “That doesn’t make him weird.”

Steve supposes that’s true. It’s amazing to him how bright Maggie is sometimes. Peggy was always so sharp, so intuitive and understanding, but Maggie is more so for a child of her tender age. She’s always been that way, even as a baby and a toddler. She talked early, potty-trained easily, was reading by the time other kids are just learning their letters. Steve watches her a moment, studying this creature that grows and changes daily yet one he knows by heart. Not for the first time, he feels separated from her. Out of his depth. That’s not all that different than how Peggy made him feel. “I guess not,” he agrees, pouring rice onto his own plate.

They settle down to eat. Bucky’s talking about what he and Maggie did that afternoon while Steve was at the marina, and Natasha’s going on about a bird she helped rescue. It sounds about par for the course. They don’t mention what a big day tomorrow is. It’s like this unspoken agreement between the adults. Natasha isn’t the only one dreading it. Bucky’s been worried, though he’s been hiding it behind nonchalance. Steve’s been _terrified_. So no one’s discussing it.

Despite the attempt to avoid more anxiety, it’s there all the same, looming in the room like the proverbial one-ton gorilla. Bucky’s loud as he talks about nothing and everything. He can always be counted on to carry on a conversation, to distract and fill the void like he’s doing now, like he always did when they were kids. Steve can’t focus on anything he’s saying, though. He’s been checked out, watching Maggie work through a second helping of rice and noodles. His mind’s oddly blank as he does, which is weird because there’s a lot of stuff to think about. Tomorrow’s been coming for months, this huge moment that’s threatening to change everything, and it feels monumental, getting closer and closer, at first impossibly far away but now directly in front of them. He _should_ be running over it again, making damn sure…

But he’s not. And he’s not even ruminating on how obnoxious and presumptuous Stark was earlier. It’s strange, but he can’t stop thinking about Stark’s eyes. He’s always had close to an eidetic memory, which has its advantages as an artist, and right now that’s really irritating because he can’t get the look of them out of his head. There’s something so familiar about them, and not because Steve knows now that he’s seen them in magazines and on TV before. That deep intelligence, sparkling and beautiful. Something Steve himself knows he doesn’t have and couldn’t understand. People call Stark a genius. Brilliant. Rare. Maybe that explains why he was so eccentric and entitled and strange and difficult. Steve’s thought before about what being a prodigy may mean, about how different a person like that may be. It’s this constant whisper in the back of his head, louder now as he pictures Stark’s face and eyes. As he loses himself in them, studying them, memorizing them anew, drawing them in his mind alight with laughter and flighty with nervousness and dark with anger and deep with affection and hazy with thought. Yet despite all those shifting emotions, those moods that changed their course as randomly and willfully as the wind, that intelligence is never gone.

“You sure are out of it tonight, even more than normal.”

Steve jerks, snapping from his reverie. He forces himself to focus and turns to find Bucky’s the only one there now. His friend’s leaning back from the remains of their dinner, beer bottle in his good hand, which is resting on his knee where he’s got his legs crossed. He tips the neck of the bottle toward Steve. “And are you planning on eating anything?”

Steve looks down and sees his dinner is mostly untouched. Maggie and Natasha are back in the living room, cleaning up her toys (though it sounds like they are playing more than picking up). Natasha’s iPod is playing more music, though far quieter. Steve doesn’t really remember them finishing and leaving the table. He really is out of it. “Sorry,” he mutters, digging into his Kung Pao chicken.

For a moment, he just eats intently. He can feel Bucky staring at him. It’s that same stare Bucky’s always had, an infuriatingly calm scrutiny that feels like he can peer straight into Steve’s head. It drives Steve as crazy now as it did when they were kids. “You gonna tell me what’s botherin’ you?” Bucky finally asks when the silence slides from tense and awkward to unbearable.

Steve chews. He’s managed to shovel most of his dinner into his mouth without really tasting it. “Nothing’s bothering me,” he replies evenly.

Bucky grunts. He sets his bottle to the table with a quiet clank and grabs the entire container of lo mein. He’s really agile with his chopsticks, handling the noodles like a pro even with one hand. “Yeah, I call bullshit on that. Like tomorrow’s just another day, right.” Steve doesn’t answer. From where he’s seated, he can see Maggie playing with Natasha. Maggie’s a real tomboy in some sense. She never wears anything pink, purple, or frilly (which is somewhat due to the fact that Steve can’t easily get that stuff secondhand). She doesn’t really like dolls or horses. She’s not into coloring, crafts, or playing tea party. Her interests are far more mature, books and tech and the like, Legos and STEM activities, and she’s never once expressed much interest anything that could be construed as girly. Part of it, Steve’s sure, is growing up without a mother. He tries to be everything a little girl needs, but he’s not sure he can be that. Also, though, it’s just not in her personality. She’s very blunt, very rough and tumble, not the precocious little girl Steve imagines Peggy may have been. Not that he knows. The Peggy he loved wasn’t a demure little princess either, despite all her ladylike manners and decorum.

Regardless, Maggie always plays with things she wouldn’t normally when she’s with Natasha. They’ve got the few Barbie dolls Steve did get her a while back, and they’ve concocted some grand saga that’s going on around the huge house Maggie built out of Legos. Steve can hear them talking, but he can’t quite make out what they’re saying. It’s not the normal drama of a five year-old’s imagination, that’s for sure. It sounds more like a Shakespearean murder mystery.

“You know, she finished off that book you got her today,” Bucky says. Steve turns back to find his friend watching him watch Maggie. Bucky offers a small smile and a little shrug. “Tore through it like quantum mechanics is the new _Pete the Cat._ ”

Steve doesn’t want to hear this exactly. Not that he’s not immensely proud of Maggie, but it brings to bear the source of his current predicament. “That’s why she needs school,” he says softly but firmly, spearing another hunk of chicken dripping in sauce and shoving it into his mouth.

Bucky chew and then answers with his mouth half full. “I’m not sayin’ she doesn’t need school. Just not sure this is the _right_ school.”

Steve sets his fork down and leans back in his seat. “Jesus, Buck, we’ve talked about this.”

“If you got the paperwork and legal stuff to get her registered for public school–”

“It’s not just that,” Steve says, although that’s part of it, if he’s honest with himself. Public school is public school. It’s their legally mandated responsibility to educate children. Maybe enrollment standards aren’t lax per se, but he figures people are less likely to scrutinize things when they have to process so many kids every year. Private school may be different. Not that he knows, which brings him to the far bigger issues. “There is no way in hell I can afford what the Shield Academy is charging. Tuition alone is way more than I make in a year.”

“There are scholarships–”

“I can’t risk that, Buck!” Steve says quietly but firmly. He stands up and takes his plate as well as Bucky’s plate and goes to the sink. There he turns on the faucet, scraping the remains of their dinners into the garbage disposal. It’s nice that their apartment has one. His doesn’t. He doesn’t have a lot of things. “Look, going after money like that–”

“You think she wouldn’t get it?” Bucky asks, and there’s a bit of an accusatory tone there.

“No, I think she _would._ That’s the problem. And maybe that involves background checks or – or financial checks or social services or who the hell knows what!” He turns on the disposal once he’s done rinsing the plates. The grinding noise of it is loud and obnoxious, and he angrily switches it off before coming back to the table to get the other plates. “It’s too dangerous.”

Bucky grabs his wrist. His grip is tight and firm but not painful. “They haven’t made a sound in _five years,_ Steve. I think if they were going to come for her, they would’ve by now.”

Steve winces. Just thinking about it is damn frightening. “I can’t risk it,” he says again.

“Those assholes didn’t give a damn about Maggie when she was born, right.” Bucky’s eyes are piercing. “Right?”

“I don’t know that they know.”

“Well, you tried to tell them, didn’t you? You called and you called and you wrote and emailed and how is it _your_ fault if they didn’t answer you? Or even bother to _listen_ to you? You did the best you could, and then you did what you had to, _period._ ” Steve bites his lip and shook his head again. He wants to argue, but Bucky is right, and he knows it. Bucky finally lets him go, and Steve goes back to the sink, aching inside, and starts rinsing the other dishes more calmly.

It gets quiet, saving for Maggie and Natasha playing and the pop music and the noise of the water running and splashing. Steve washes the plates, even though Bucky and Natasha also have a dishwasher. It’s just a habit he can’t shake. He can feel Bucky watching him again, that knowing gaze boring into the back of his head. Finally, his best friend gets up and comes over with an armful of left-overs, which he sets onto the counter. He grabs a towel on the rack beside the sink. “Look, pal, I’ve told you a million times. I’ve been telling you practically every day since Peggy died. You did the _right_ thing. Peggy wanted you to have her. She told you.”

Steve sighs. Thinking about that never fails to make him feel simultaneously incredibly honored and so happy yet completely and utterly scared and unworthy. “I know,” he murmurs, handing Bucky a clean plate.

Bucky sets it down on the counter before drying it with one hand. “So even if they come knocking, which they won’t, they won’t be able to do anything.”

Steve side-eyes Bucky. He wants to believe that. Truly, he does, and maybe if the world were a kinder, fairer place, he would. But he knows Peggy’s family. He _knows_ the level of cruel entitlement they and so many people like them have. And he’s not sure, given the chance, that they wouldn’t try something. Maybe Bucky is right and they wouldn’t care; they never cared about Peggy much when she was alive, at least not about her wishes and desires or even her emotional wellbeing. But fear of this – of them coming into his life and causing trouble – has driven him in almost everything he’s done since Maggie was born.

He sets down another plate for Bucky to dry, breathing through his fears. “Let’s just... try this school for a while, huh? Okay?” Bucky shakes his head disapprovingly. “I get it, Buck. I really do. One night last week when I was putting her to bed, Maggie told me that even if they find a way to manipulate quasiparticles for quantum computation, vibrations from outside environment will make them degrade without an appropriate superconducting medium.” Bucky blanches. Steve feels at a loss all over again. “I laid awake staring at the ceiling for hours. _I know_.”

“Jeez, Stevie.”

“She’s smart. She’s _really_ smart.” Steve finishes with the last plate and turns the water off. “But she has to go to school. She has to get out into the world. She has no friends her own age. She doesn’t know how to socialize or play with other kids. She needs to be with people to learn that, and that’s why I think we have to start here. Peggy wanted me to have her, right? Because she didn’t want this privileged life for her.”

“And if she gets bored? Or if they find out she’s way smarter than they can handle?” Steve doesn’t want to think about that. “Getting her an education that fits her level of intelligence is not just a _privileged_ life, Steve.” Steve gives Bucky a wan look. “C’mon. Wouldn’t you have killed to go to Parsons or CalArts or the Rhode Island School of Design or any Ivy League?”

“I didn’t go because I didn’t try,” Steve replies, “and someone wanted to be a soldier instead.” That last part is a bit of a joke, and he nudges Bucky with brotherly affection.

Bucky’s not buying the excuse. “You could have easily made it into the best art school in the country, but you could have _never_ afforded it, and don’t tell me that didn’t factor into it.”

Steve can’t, because it’s true. He grew up poor. Well, not destitute, but poor enough _._ His mother had always put food on the table, and she kept a roof over their heads, and Steve always had fairly nice clothes. He had toys and things on his birthdays and Christmases. There were treats and surprises now and then. But his mother worked herself to the bone to provide all that. She was a nurse and a single parent. She raised him completely alone because his dad died when he was a baby. She was at the hospital long hours, worked difficult double shifts for those presents and surprises, but she always came home with a smile and a hug and kiss and asking how Steve’s school day was. She never _once_ let on how hard it was.

And when she died, she left him nothing, not even their apartment in Brooklyn which she only paid rent on for seventeen years. He didn’t – still doesn’t – resent her for that in the slightest; she gave him everything he really needed, and he knows that. Still, it made college impossible. He worked all through high school, worked hard in fact, and he had great grades. His counselors and teachers thought he could have made it into any college for art, just as Bucky said, but even with scholarships, he couldn’t afford it. For a while after high school graduation, he entertained the idea that he could work his way through. It’d be slow going but he could try to save enough to manage some level of higher education.

But then Bucky enlisted. Truth be told, Steve joining up wasn’t just out of loyalty, though that was a major part of it of course. Another part of it stemmed from the simple truth that with Bucky gone, Steve had nothing. No home. No family. He didn’t want to be alone, so going with his friend was the only true option. And being in the service… He found a new family. Brothers and sisters in his unit, bonds forged through difficult and dangerous circumstances. That life also brought him Peggy, which brought him Maggie in turn, so he doesn’t regret taking this path. He could have stayed back in Brooklyn, taken all the art jobs he could find so he could save and maybe, just _maybe,_ get into college, become the artist he always wanted to be…

He likes to think things happen for a reason.

“You know,” he finally says after a moment, his tone lighter and a bit of a smile on his face, “you could be overlooking something. Both of you.”

Bucky finishes putting the last plate into the cabinet. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“This could work out.”

Bucky turns to him in a bit of surprise, which Steve understands. Even he’s somewhat shocked that _he_ is the one offering optimism. It’s not been his way, not recently, to blindly trust in things being okay just because they could be. Then Bucky gives a little laugh and closes the cabinet. “Ah, shit, Steve,” he says, shaking his head. He looks over Steve’s shoulder, and Steve turns, following his gaze to Natasha and Maggie again. They’re cleaning up more now, and Maggie’s kind of grouching about it, giving Natasha a little trouble. Natasha brushes it off and moves her along. “Maybe I’m just scared.”

Steve sighs. “You think I’m not?”

“You always bury so much crap that it’s honestly hard to tell.” Bucky says that matter-of-factly because it’s absolutely true. “But I think my reasons are different, and they’re kinda selfish more than anything. She goes off to school, and I just…” He shrugs. “…am here, I guess.”

Steve can appreciate that. Ever since Bucky came back into his life, he’s been taking care of Maggie. Maggie was hardly more than a toddler when Bucky started looking after her, so to her, he’s always been there. She doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t around. He and Natasha are Maggie’s secondary caregivers, no doubt about it. So having her gone for six hours out of the day now, Monday through Friday, off to kindergarten… It’s going to be a huge adjustment in more ways than one.

Steve gently clasps Bucky on his injured shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he swears. “You have no idea how much I’ve needed everything you’ve done. How much I’m still gonna need it.”

Bucky snaps out of his solemn reverie. “No, I do,” he says with a smile. “You’d be hopeless without me, Rogers. Always have been.” Steve’s not going to argue with that. It’s probably true. Bucky sighs, watching as Natasha finally gets Maggie cleaning up in earnest. “Guess I gotta find somethin’ else to do with myself.”

“Guess so.” Steve’s not going to offer the same stuff he always says, that Bucky can do anything he wants, that he just has to try, that nothing, not even his missing arm, is holding him back. He’s said it all before, and he knows Bucky knows it all anyway. It’d just be nagging, so he finishes cleaning up instead, taking the leftover Chinese food and closing the containers before putting them into the fridge.

Bucky stands near the sink a bit longer before letting out a long, deep breath. “Been meanin’ to ask you somethin’ for a while. Been _thinkin’_ about it for a while, but with all this happenin’, maybe now’s the best time to do it.”

Steve turns away from cleaning to appraise his friend. “What’s that?”

Bucky actually looks nervous. Bashful. That’s a look Steve hasn’t seen on him since high school. “What do you think about me askin’ Nat to marry me?”

Steve just stops. “What?”

Now Bucky flushes even more. He steps closer and lowers his voice. “You know, puttin’ a ring on it, like that stupid song they like so much.” The flustered look in his eyes becomes more so. “I got my mom’s ring, you know. And I… I really love her.”

Steve can’t help the huge smile that comes to his face. “I know you do.” Ever since Bucky and Natasha met shortly after Bucky moved in with him, he could tell. Natasha’s been living in the complex ever since Steve got his place, though at first he never really took much notice of her even though they are neighbors. He was too consumed with trying to care for a baby with practically no experience. She came into his life before Bucky returned to it. One night when Maggie was up crying and Steve was so exhausted and had basically no idea what to do, Natasha heard the racket (all of Florida probably heard the racket) and knocked on his door and summarily invited herself in. She got the baby calm in no time flat. Ever since then, she’s been a constant in their lives. She was the one who watched Maggie when Steve went home to Brooklyn for Mrs. Barnes’ funeral. And when Bucky joined them, it was pretty much love at first sight.

Steve doesn’t know much about Natasha’s past, but she did tell him shortly after her rescue during the all-night screaming incident that she can’t have kids. Steve didn’t realize it at the time, but that was a huge deal, Natasha telling him that. She’s fiercely private, underneath her many masks, flirty and fun and motherly and sometimes cold. The fact that she trusted him enough with that part of her was the beginning of a deep friendship. She could see right away that he was in over his head with a baby, and obviously being with Maggie was filling a void in her own life. And Steve knows now that Natasha’s as in love with Bucky as he is with her. She doesn’t show it much, but Steve’s caught glimpses of the quiet moments, when the two of them cuddle on the apartment’s patio and watch the stars like they’re not in the middle of a manufactured lot of cheap buildings, like this place is paradise. When Bucky’s the only person in the world who can make Natasha smile on a bad day. When Natasha soothes all of Bucky’s pain with just a touch. They’ve gotten even closer when Bucky moved in with her last year, folding into each other perfectly, which has admittedly made Steve feel just a bit like a third wheel. They’re both damaged but the dark things they’ve experienced, so they understand each other in a way that Steve can’t.

But Steve’s just fine with that, just like he’s completely, absolutely, one hundred percent _fine_ with his one best friend marrying his other best friend. “I think it’s great, Buck,” he says.

Bucky’s eyes light with hope. It’d be kind of comical, if the moment wasn’t so monumental. “Yeah?”

Steve smiles genuinely. “Of course. You both deserve a win.” Bucky actually blushes. That’s a rare occurrence. “And she’s perfect for you. Best there is.”

Bucky grins, too. “Well, to be honest, that wasn’t why I was asking. Would never think of marryin’ anyone you don’t like.” That’s touching, but Steve doesn’t like the worry in Bucky’s eyes. “It’s just… You know, the last few years, it’s been the three of us: you, me, and Nat. Well, and Maggie. This would change all that.” He sighs, deflating a bit. “Although I guess things are already changin’.”

They are. And this would be huge, too. Steve wants to ask if Bucky means they’ll move away, or not be around as much, but he can’t bear to think about that. And he’s not that mean, to let on that Bucky’s right to be concerned. “I’m fine,” he hears himself assure. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Yeah, that’s never going to happen,” Bucky says with a fond grunt. Steve smiles, but some of his concern must be bleeding through. Bucky grabs him and pulls him into a hug. It’s amazing to Steve that Bucky’s hugs can still feel so huge and powerful and safe as they always did. “I’m always gonna be there for you, punk. You know that? Leaving you and that cupcake ain’t an option for me. Or for Nat.”

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky. “I know that.” He was dumb to worry about that for even a second. Even if things did change, it wouldn’t mean Natasha and Bucky would be out of their lives. Of course not. “I do.”

Bucky pulls back. He smiles more, and Steve can tell he’s relieved and incredibly excited. He wipes at his eyes a little. “Be easier if I knew you had someone else to look after you.” Steve rolls his eyes and shoves Bucky away further. “What? Come on.”

“Apparently we’ve reached where every conversation invariably ends up,” Steve mutters, getting a wet cloth to wipe down the dinette table. “And let’s just cut to the finale, okay? I don’t need someone else to look after me. I’m fine.”

“Steve, it’s been five years. When Peggy told you to take the baby, I don’t think she meant never move on and live a lifetime of grief-stricken solitude.”

Steve sighs. He really hates this. More and more this last year or so, as Bucky’s gotten onto much stronger footing with his PTSD and disability, he’s really gone back to his mother-hen tendencies. Which is annoying and kind of weird, because he really doesn’t do it over Maggie, the one of the pair of them who’s a child and therefore more in need of a mother-hen. No, he’s gone right back to smothering Steve with his worries. “I am not grief-stricken,” Steve argues, though he knows Bucky’s not convinced. He’s not convinced himself. He misses Peggy something fierce some days, and he knows he’s not great at hiding it.

“Well, mopey solitude then,” Bucky says.

“I’m not mopey. And I’m not living in solitude, you ass,” Steve answers as he cleans.

Bucky doesn’t let him get away with that. “You know what I mean.”

“I do know. And I have Maggie. That’s more than enough. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Not arguing that. But that doesn’t mean–”

“Bucky, I love you, but enough, okay?” Steve turns after gathering the fallen rice and food tidbits on the edge of the table. He wipes it into hand before tossing it all into the trash. “I’m fine. I’m gonna be fine. Everything is good. School’s gonna go great tomorrow. And you marrying Nat is the best thing ever. We were talking about that, weren’t we, not me.” Bucky frowns deeper than the damn Grand Canyon. Steve barrels on. “You guys gonna have a ceremony? And I assume you want Mags as the flower girl.”

Bucky smiles, but it’s tempered. “She hasn’t said yes yet.”

“She will.”

“Steve–”

“And when she does, you’re gonna need a flower girl.” He’s deflecting and not well. He just wants Bucky to drop it. He’s not ready to be with anyone else. He’s not sure when he will be, if he’ll ever be. He feels like he can hardly handle this some days. Going back out there socially, _dating_ again… He never had much luck with that before Peggy. He’s doesn’t even want to try now. Grief-stricken, withdrawn, _damaged…_ Whatever. He’s just not interested.

So he needs Bucky to back off. “Right? You know, if we can get a dress on her.”

Bucky appraises him a moment more, and his concern is so strong it practically seems tangible, this thing trying to pull Steve in. But then he nods, and his worrying weakens. “She doesn’t have to wear a dress. Think I’d make that cupcake wear some kind of frilly, froo-froo whatever?” Steve closes his eyes, relieved but not for that reason, and tosses the rag back to the sink. “Nope. Wouldn’t make my best man wear a tux, either.”

Now he turns and sees Bucky smiling at him. Of course Bucky would ask him; there couldn’t be any other option, not after everything they’ve done together. Bucky steps forward and grasps Steve’s shoulder again. “I was just thinkin’, with Maggie goin’ to school and things changin’… Sometimes you have to go on, you know? Walk onto whatever comes next. Stop trying to hang on so hard to what’s behind us.”

Steve’s not sure if Bucky’s saying that to him or himself. Maybe it should be comforting, but it feels like an admonition more than anything, even if Bucky’s tone is nothing but soft and affectionate. Before he can say anything, Bucky’s embracing him again, and he just sags into it this time, closing his eyes.

“There’s an awful lot of hugging going on over there.”

Natasha’s teasing call has the two of them pulling apart. Steve looks over to see her standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her full lips quirked in a bit of a grin. He wonders if she heard their debate before. It doesn’t seem like it. “Something you two want to talk about?”

Steve shares an uneasy look with Bucky. “Nope.”

Natasha scrutinizes him in that piercing way she does. “You’re a terrible liar, Rogers,” she says after a beat. Then she turns to Bucky. “You both are.”

Bucky puts on a sweet smile. He comes over and puts his arm around Natasha’s trim waist before planting a huge kiss on her cheek. “Yeah, but you love us.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes him back. She’s trying to act cool and nonchalant, but Steve doesn’t miss the tiny smile and the genuine happiness in her eyes. Then Maggie comes bounding over and ramming Bucky’s leg, wedging herself between the two adults. “Can we watch UFC tonight? Please? Please?” Making believe that they’re MMA experts and acting out the fights with plenty of sound effects and rough-housing and wrestling is one of Maggie’s favorite past times with Bucky. Steve supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, given this child’s two principal caregivers are ex-military and Bucky was always something of a bruiser in their youth.

Maggie bats her huge, beautiful brown eyes at him. “Please, Bucket? Please? _Please?”_

Bucky opens his mouth, but Steve beats him to the punch. “Not tonight. School night, right?”

That’s all it takes to having Maggie’s cheery mood plummet. She scowls like a champion, eyes narrow and brows furrowed and body going tense. It’s another expression that reminds Steve so much of Peggy, though it’s infinitely cuter on a five-year old. “School’s already ruining my life.”

“The drama,” Steve declares. “We need to get going.”

Maggie pouts more, but this isn’t a fight she can win. She obstinately stands by Bucky a moment, looking like she’ll grab him and hang on for dear life should Steve try to force her to go. She doesn’t have much choice though when Steve scoops her up and tosses her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She gives a token protest before succumbing. “You’re mean, Steve.”

“So you keep telling me,” Steve says. “Say goodnight to Bucket.”

“Night, Bucket.”

Bucky comes over and gives Maggie a kiss. “Night, cupcake. Come tell me how everything goes when you get home, huh?”

“And say goodnight to Nat.”

Maggie growls. “Night, Nattie.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything, though she tickles Maggie’s exposed tummy. Then Steve walks her over to the door before setting her back down on her feet and nudging her out of the apartment. He’s holding the screen door open, watching Maggie run down the path toward their unit in the cool twilight, and saying, “Thanks for dinner, guys.”

Natasha snatches his arm. She followed them to the door, which is kind of weird, and now she’s staring at him with deeply worried eyes. This mask she’s been wearing all evening about tomorrow, the one she’s had in place ever since Steve mentioned months ago that Maggie needed school… There’s so much fear in her face. He’s never seen her afraid. And obviously she did hear his discussion with Bucky. “If anyone tries to take that baby from you,” she says quietly, “I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

A few seconds later, Steve’s following Maggie into their own yard, with her hand in his and her chattering away, but he’s not listening. He should be terrified over the mere prospect of what’s got his friend so riled. He’s not, though. Once again, that’s just too terrible to think about, so instead he’s wondering if those rumors about Natasha being an ex-assassin are true and if she’ll make good on that threat.

* * *

The rest of the evening is really quiet. Steve can tell Maggie’s more tired than she was letting on before. She’s also nervous. That’s about the only time she’s ever this silent and still and complacent. She goes to get ready for bed without Steve having to nag her. She even brushes her teeth sans reminder. She’s climbing into her bed, which isn’t even in its own room – it’s a one bedroom apartment, and her bed is tucked into a nook beside the living area. Steve feels guiltier and guiltier for this arrangement all the time, but it’s not right for her to sleep with him anymore (even though she still does climb in with him most nights. He rarely wakes up when she does, so he just finds her in the morning, practically curled into his side or laying on his chest. Truth be told, he’s too touched to break her of the habit, not yet anyway).

At any rate, she’s ready. He wanders around the apartment for a bit, cleaning up a little from the morning (he didn’t get a chance to before leaving for the marina) and locking up and squashing the daily Palmetto bug that somehow snuck in. They used to gross him out something fierce, but it’s just a fact of life down here, especially when you live in a place like this. Then he turns off the lights and heads towards Maggie’s place.

And, yeah, it’s not a room by the strictest definition of the word, but they’ve made it hers. She’s got shells from their many, _many_ trips to the beach arranged the white paneling of the walls in ornate patterns. Her stuffed animals are all over her white bed, which is secondhand but the bedding itself Steve got brand new. Blue and white, Maggie’s favorite colors. Toys cover the rug on the floor, and her books are strewn all over – so many books, some from the library and some from the book exchange at the community center and some Steve’s bought. Not all of them are for kids her age. He picks up a fallen physics textbook and sets it to the shelf above her bed before sitting on the side of it. “How about I iron out some of those knots?”

Maggie frowns. She’s already laying down and under her blankets. She looks like she wants to turn away, but then she doesn’t, because she wants his comfort more and he can see that. “You suck at hair.”

“Hey, language,” he chastises gently. “I stink at it.”

That wins a smile. He reaches over to the shelf to get one of the hairbrushes (he keeps buying them – how do they always get lost with just the two of them?) and waits until she sighs dramatically and comes with much flourish to sit cross-legged in front of him. Then he starts carefully working the brush through her abundant brown hair. She likes it long (only because she hates having it cut), so it gets tangled constantly. Methodically he works out all the snarls, and it’s quiet for a bit. “You know, I did this for your mom once.”

Maggie perks up a little at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Right before she had you.” He’s got the tangles loose, the wavy brown tresses smooth for once. “Braided it, too.”

“You don’t know how to braid.”

Steve chuckles. “Sure, I do. Bucky has sisters, you know. I grew up with them.”

Maggie turns and looks at him in surprise. Apparently there are things Bucky hasn’t told her. “He does? How come they never come here then?”

That’s more complicated. How do you explain to a five year old, even one as advanced as Maggie, that war changes you and sometimes it’s hard to go back? “They don’t like the heat,” he finally says, and he doesn’t think that’s a total lie. None of Bucky’s family care for warmer climates.

Maggie seems to buy that. She turns away again, letting Steve return to brushing out her hair more. It takes her a moment more to ask what she wants to. “Can you braid my hair? Like Mom’s.”

Such a request shouldn’t be so surprising, but it is. They don’t talk about Peggy much. Maggie knows the basics, of course. Her mom died having her, and Steve ended up taking care of her. She also knows Peggy was British, and that she and Steve were in love, and that Peggy was very important in England, very smart and well educated, a true lady. She doesn’t know the whole story, though. Truth be told, Steve doesn’t think anyone does except for him. And that’s fine, because Maggie thinks the world of her mother even without the details. She’s not outward about it, but Steve knows she does, and Steve wouldn’t have it any other way. “You’d like that?” he asks. Maggie nods. Steve runs his fingers through her hair a couple times, feeling a tender ache in his chest. “Sure.”

He gets to it. It’s been a while, so he ends up fumbling for a bit before muscle memory prevails. Maggie doesn’t notice. She’s quietly staring at Peggy’s picture, the one she keeps on the shelf above her bed. It’s one of a few Steve has of her. She’s utterly stunning in it, sunlight bathing her face and turning her dark brown hair almost gold-spun and her ivory skin shimmering and her deep eyes glowing. Steve took it himself on the French Riviera, when they ran off together on his leave right after the whole Medal of Honor thing. They were alone for three days with nothing but the ocean and wonderful food and each other. It was one of the most wonderful times of Steve’s life. He got this candid shot with his phone of her on the beach, and she was absolutely stunning in it. She has this huge smile that lights up her entire face. She’s open and unguarded, so different from the perfect image she always had to maintain, so far from the confining hell her life was. She was blissful.

He wonders, and not for the first time, if one of the reasons he ended up _here_ of all the distant places to which he could have fled is because of this moment. Subconsciously, maybe, but driving nonetheless, to bring Peggy’s baby somewhere like the one place he ever saw her so completely free and happy.

“Do you think my mother would have wanted me to go to this school?”

That soft, innocent question pulls Steve from his thoughts. He got so entangled in them that he messed up the French braid, so he starts again, gathering hair and crossing it. He’s never been one to lie. It never feels right. “I can only guess.” Maggie looks down, fidgeting a little and nearly messing up the braid, but Steve doesn’t say anything. He just fixes it. “I’ll tell you what, though.”

“What?”

“She’d want you to have friends. She’d want you to have fun and play with other kids.”

Maggie shakes her head. She’s picking at her pajamas. “I’m not like other kids.”

Steve exhales slowly. This has become an uncomfortable source of tension lately. As Maggie has gotten older and just how incredibly smart and mature she is has grown increasingly apparent, the fact that she’s not normal has become undeniable. The fact that she has no mother and that her closest friends in the world are adults aside, she’s not an average or “normal” kid. Not that normal should mean anything. Steve firmly thinks it shouldn’t. “So what? Just because you’re different or they’re different doesn’t mean you can’t understand each other.”

“They’re not going to be able to understand me. They’re idiots.”

Steve finishes braiding the hair and grabs the ponytail holder that was by the brush on the shelf. He knows what that’s from, this idea that Maggie has in her head that school is stupid and beneath her intelligence. And maybe that latter part is true, but the former thing isn’t. “Your mom would want you to have compassion too, like she did for everyone she met.” Steve secures the braid and then slides his hand around Maggie’s chest. “School’s about more than learning stuff you already know.”

Maggie’s quiet a bit longer. She scooches back a bit, leaning into Steve’s chest. She takes his hand, playing with his fingers the way she’s done since she was a baby. It takes her a few quiet moments again to say what she wants. “What if they don’t like me?”

The answer to that is obvious. “Then they’re idiots.” He can feel her little body relax, and he pats her belly. “Go check out your hair.”

With renewed energy, she scampers off her bed and to the small bathroom. Steve follows and finds her standing on her step stool, trying to turn her head to get a view of the back. “I can’t see it.”

It’s a tight squeeze, but he pushes behind her where she stands at the vanity and takes the hand mirror. That he holds up, so she can see it in the bigger mirror, and there her French braid is. It’s not perfect, but it’s decent for a first try in however many years. Maggie’s face just explodes in joy though, so now it’s the best job he could have done, and he feels his own heart swell in pride as she beams at the mirror. “I look like Mom.”

She does. It’s unbelievable just how much. She turns and grins at Steve. “Can you do this tomorrow, too?”

Steve offers a soft smile. “Sure, Mags.”

She launches herself at him, and he barely gets her up into her arms in the cramped space. Again, she’s probably a little too old for this now, but like sleeping with him he doesn’t feel much like disabusing her of it, so he hugs her close for a second, trying to calm his own riled heart, trying to bask in that _rightness_ , before taking her back to her bed. He sets her there before tucking her back in. Then he kneels at the side. “It’s gonna be great,” he promises, praying his voice sounds as level as he’s trying to make it. “You’re gonna meet kids tomorrow that you can borrow money from for the rest of your life.”

“Like you and Bucket?”

Steve pulls her blanket up higher and tucks Fred, the ratty cat stuffed animal she’s had since forever, right up to her chest. “Like me and Bucket.” She grins. “Now get some sleep.”

Maggie holds Fred tightly and then nods. Steve stands and gets the lights in the living room. The apartment goes dark. As he’s heading toward his bedroom, he hears the call. “Steve?”

He stops. “Yeah?”

“Can we get a real cat?”

That makes him smile, even though it’s the same question he’s been asked about a thousand times over the last few months. “Nope.”

It’s quiet after that. Steve leaves his bedroom door open a crack like he always does and stands there like he does too, listening for a couple moments to see if Maggie gets up or calls for him more. She doesn’t. Then he breathes that parent’s sigh of relief once their kids are down after another day and goes to get himself ready for bed. He strips off his dirty clothes and pulls on a pair of cotton pajama pants. The bathroom is closer to his bedroom, so he can typically sneak in there without getting close to Maggie’s space and therefore disturbing her. He does to brush his teeth and wash his hands and face. He catches his reflection in the mirror and looks at himself this time. He’s vastly different than what he was with Peggy, far from the clean cut soldier with the neatly combed hair and clean-shaven jaw and confidence to his smile. His dirty blond hair always needs a cut nowadays, and he should trim up his beard. There’s a weight to his eyes that wasn’t there before. _Grief-stricken._ _Damaged._ He looks the part.

Sighing, he shuts the light off and silently creeps back to his room. He climbs into his own messy bed with its lumpy mattress that he hates but can’t afford to replace and tries to relax, but he finds himself staring at the ceiling, at the fan slowly spinning. Tomorrow is huge, and he’s still terrified. This is crazy, dangerous, and he’s probably making a mistake. After spending Maggie’s entire life hiding her, he’s sending her to public school? With complete strangers? He’s stupidly insane. “Peggy, tell me what to do here,” he whispers at the shadows.

There’s no answer. Of course there can’t be. There never is. It’s dumb to think there could be, but he does every time he asks. That feeling’s back, the one where he knows he’s walking the edge of a precipice, and one choice, one decision, could send him falling, plummeting, _changing_ everything.

God, he misses her.

He forces himself to close his eyes, to stop thinking so much, to clear his mind and let sleep come. It does at a glacial pace, crawling nearer and over him so slowly. As it does, he finds himself thinking of that scene on the beach. He’s picturing beautiful brown eyes alight with joy and love. Eyes filled with strength and determination. Eyes teeming with sharp, _sharp_ intelligence.

That’s a strange thing, though. Still so strange. A realization forms in his hazy mind, but he’s too close to sleep to really think on the fact that the eyes he’s imagining… They’re not Peggy’s.

They’re Tony Stark’s.


	3. Chapter 3

Getting Maggie off to school is harder than he thought it would be.

Despite all the mental and physical preparation he went through for the moment, Steve’s still not ready. He thinks he hides it pretty well though, as Maggie grumbles and grouches through her morning routine. Her _new_ morning routine. It’s a chore to get her out of bed, a challenge to coax her through brushing her teeth and washing her face, and even more of a struggle to get her dressed. Steve bought her a new dress, a red one with flowers on it and a white, scalloped collar, to make a good first impression. He knew it was a long shot when he got it; convincing Maggie to dress nicely is never easy, just like Bucky said last night about the flower girl situation. This time is no exception. Steve stands outside his bedroom door, knocking and calling through it to where Maggie’s supposed to be putting her clothes on. All their clothes are arranged in the one closet of his room, and he laid the dress out on the bed and said nothing about it, hoping this will be a battle he can just win by not fighting, but at this point… The clock is ticking down for the bus to get there. “Mags, come on,” he says, knocking again. “We’re running out of time.”

“I look stupid!” comes the shout through door. “Not going!”

Steve sighs, checking his watch for the umpteenth time that morning. “Come on, please.” Begging never works. Bribery tends to be a better approach, but Steve’s too addled to figure out what he can use as an incentive. “I made you an Irish breakfast!”

There’s more rustling. “You can’t cook.”

“Can so. My mom was Irish, so I know how to make a good Irish breakfast.”

“I don’t want to eat!”

“Gotta eat a decent breakfast. It’s the one and only prerequisite for the first day of kindergarten.”

“Don’t care! I’m not going!”

“Come on, Maggie,” he calls again more firmly. Frustration is combining with nerves, and he’s antsy, more than he can remember feeling in quite some time. He’s tempted to tell Maggie why she has to go, why school is so important, but they’ve discussed it so much, last night included. _Ad nauseum_. That was one of Peggy’s favorite sayings. Steve was never really exposed to it before he met her. It’s not a very common saying, at least not in his world. Just thinking it… He can practically hear her voice, that tone she always got when she was curtly but politely reminding others that a topic was closed for discussion. “Enough now. Come out and let me see.”

For a second, it’s quiet, and he thinks she’s still going to fight him on this like she has everything else that morning. But then the door opens slowly, and there Maggie is, dressed in the red dress with her white socks and dirty, old sneakers on and hair all mussed. Her face is fixed in an incredible scowl. Despite that, Steve’s just taken aback at how she’s grown. At how perfect she is and always will be. “You look beautiful,” he says.

She rolls those big brown eyes and stalks away. “I look stupid,” she growls again, stalking toward the kitchen.

“Hey,” he calls after her. “Forgetting something?”

She stops in her tracks and dramatically twirls to glare at him. He just stares back with a bit of a smile that he manages even with how unsettled he’s feeling, and she catches on after a moment, feeling at the tangled mess of her hair that’s now loose from last night’s braid. “Ugh! Just do it.” Then she stomps back toward him and into the bathroom.

Steve follows with a heavy sigh. Maggie just stands on her stool as he quickly brushes and braids her hair again. It’s easier this time, and he manages to get it tighter and smoother than before. She spends the time scowling into the mirror, and Steve’s tempted to make some kind of comment about how her face will get stuck that way if she keeps frowning so hard, but he can’t make the words come. He can’t think about what this morning means or even begin to acknowledge the fresh storm of doubt and insecurity just begging for his attention. He can’t do anything other than go forward. So he finishes, securing the braid with the same ponytail holder. Then he smiles. “Now you look perfect.”

Maggie finally meets his gaze. He can see she’s just as nervous as he feels, and he doesn’t want that. Sure, there’s a lot rolled up into this moment, but for Maggie? It’s just her first day of school. All these other concerns and questions and fears don’t apply, and all she has to think about is having a great first day with the other kids and her new teacher. He reaches around her to straighten her dress and then lifts her before setting her to the floor. “Okay?”

She takes a moment before she nods, and together they go out to the kitchenette. Steve has her sit at the table where her cereal’s waiting, and he goes about finishing her lunch. As he makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for her (cutting off the crusts, just the way she prefers) and gets it into a plastic baggy, he glances at her to make sure she’s eating. She is, and her scowl’s not as fierce as before. She’s spooning the cereal in her mouth and looking at one of her math books, but he can tell she’s not really reading. Finally, after a bunch of quiet minutes, she asks, “Where’s the Irish part?”

“Huh?”

She turns. “You said you made me an Irish breakfast.”

He stuffs the sandwich, a bag of sliced bananas, and a Rice Krispie treat into her lunchbox before reaching over and turning the box of cereal beside her bowl around more so she can see it. She rolls her eyes again, this time at the Lucky Charms logo. “Lame.”

“They’re magically delicious,” he quips while filling her water bottle from the Brita pitcher in the fridge. He glances over his shoulder at her again and finds her begrudgingly shoveling in another spoonful, and he can’t resist teasing her more, throwing everything in a really bad impersonation of an Irish accent. “And built-in good luck for a first day, too!”

“You’re such a dork,” she grumbles, but the comment wins him a little smile, and that makes it worth it. She eats more for a moment while Steve finishes with her backpack, but when he turns back again, she’s got her chin on her hand and her elbow on the table, and she’s playing with her meal, dipping the spoon in the milk and letting the marshmallows and cereal slip back into the bowl. Finally she makes one last attempt. “ _Please_ don’t make me go.”

Steve sighs. “Mags–”

She’s putting on those puppy dog eyes of hers, the ones she always wields against him when she really wants something. “Can’t you homeschool me or something?”

He’s not going to be dissuaded, no matter how thickly she lays it on. He quickly puts away the bread and the peanut butter. “I’m not smart enough, Mags.”

“Sure, you are,” she argues. “You know all kinds of things.”

“Not the kinds of things you need to know.” He sets the jar of jelly back into the fridge. “And definitely not the things you want to learn. Finish up your cereal.” He wipes his hands and glances at his watch yet again. “Bus will be here in ten minutes.”

“ _Please_ ,” she whines.

Steve brings her backpack over. “We’re not talking about this again.” His tone is as certain as he can make it, which is surprisingly strong to his ears. He figures that’s because this has to be the right course, and deep down he really does know it. His mom always told him to trust his instincts, and when it really comes down to it, he _knows_ Maggie needs to have a normal life, not one bound by money or power or prestige and privilege. She needs friends and Girl Scouts and birthday parties and playdates. She needs to learn how to be a kid.

And she’s too smart _not_ to have the opportunities an education can provide. “Okay?” He crouches beside her and brushes a wisp of brown hair back from her eyes where it’s already come free of the braid. “It’s gonna be great, and you’re gonna do fine, and everything’s good.”

She hums and haws a moment more, and that anxiety rears its ugly head, this time with wet eyes and a trembling lower lip rather than pouting or losing her temper. Steve cups her little face. “Hey. We’re still in this together, right? Don’t I keep promising you that? You and me are in everything _together_.” She nods slightly. “So if you start crying, I’m gonna have to pretend to start crying.” That gets another little smile, and Steve leans forward to hug her tight. “It’ll be okay, Maggie. I promise you.”

Against his shoulder, Maggie nods. “Okay.”

He rubs her back a moment more for comfort before pulling back. Then he catches sight of the kitchen clock and checks his watch and then the clock again. “Alright, it’s time.”

A few moments later, they’re crossing the apartment complex toward the bus stop. This is one of a few because the complex is pretty big, but Maggie’s the only kid standing at the road. That simultaneously makes Steve more nervous and somewhat relieved, worried that he’s screwed up the place or the time or – God forbid – the _day_ but happy not to have to talk to any parents. The day is bright but very warm and humid even this early, and Maggie’s standing really stiffly, backpack on tight and not looking around. Steve’s just as tense, squinting into the morning sun. The two of them are silent as they wait.

Just as Steve’s about to go back into their place to double-check the time on the letter he got, the school bus rumbles down the way. Steve takes a deep breath, trying not to feel like this is a big, yellow symbol of doom. “Here we are,” he says evenly, and Maggie looks up at him with a huge frown. “You got this.” The bus slows and squeaks to a stop right in front of them, and the doors open, and now it’s time. Maggie gives him yet another desperate glance, a final plea, but he gently nudges her forward. “It’ll be great,” he promises yet again. He knows he’s being a pathetic broken record, so he takes a deep breath as she climbs up the steps into the bus. “I don’t know. Just… try to have fun.”

She gives him one more glower before the driver shakes her head, smiles, and closes the doors. The bus’s hydraulics hiss, and then off it goes.

Steve stands there for a little while longer, watching the bus turn at the end of the street and staring after it even when it’s long gone. His heart’s heavy and his brain’s numb aside from a constant stream of silent prayers. _Please let this be okay. Please let it go well. And please, please, please let her have a good day._

He feels like he’s been standing there a long time before he comes to his senses. Then he finally lets go of that deep breath, dropping his hands from his hips and heading back to his apartment. He passes Bucky and Natasha’s place, and he spots Natasha in the kitchen window. Obviously she watched the entire thing like a hawk, and now she’s staring at him with a mixture of terror and anger because _he actually did it._ Steve’s not ready to deal with that, feeling worried and guilty enough for the both of them, so he scurries a bit too much like a dog with its tail between its legs to his own apartment to get ready for work.

* * *

The marina’s very quiet, which is nice because Steve doesn’t want to deal with anyone. He manages to get there and slip in without Thor even seeing him (which isn’t that much of a feat – Thor is rarely there before him). He grabs his tools, collects his work orders, and gets to it, eager to bury himself in a good distraction so he doesn’t have to think too much about Maggie or anything else. It’s a little after nine o’clock. School ends at three, and the bus will be back to drop Maggie off at 3:30, so he has about six hours to work. He can get a lot done in six hours.

But then, as he’s walking out of the mechanic’s office, he glances down at the workload. Stark’s boat is on top. Because he _put_ it on top yesterday. He stops just a few steps from the office, pushing his sunglasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before tipping his head back and staring up at the blue sky. _Shit._ He doesn’t want to deal with this, either. He pretty much forgot about the whole weird thing yesterday, about Stark and his fancy yacht and his weird come-on. Now it’s staring him in the face. He wants to crumple it up and throw it away. He doesn’t quite understand why. It’s not like Stark’s here, hitting on him again.

…Is it stupid that he’s kind of disappointed by that?

“Really stupid,” Steve grumbles to himself and heads over to the private side dock of the marina, where Stark had deposited his million dollar boat. It’s just sitting there in the water, as sleek and stunning as it was yesterday. For a moment Steve just checks it over; after all, if it got damaged or dented or even scraped in their care, they’d be liable for it (which is another reason he should never have taken this job; they don’t have the facilities to safely house something like this). Thankfully, nothing’s wrong. Breathing deeply in relief, he steps onto the yacht and uses the keys to open the door. Then he’s making his way through the swanky interior, feeling yet again like he’s way too dirty and, well, _poor_ to be surrounded by such extravagance. He makes a pointed effort _not_ to look at anything as he goes down below deck. He ends up spending a minute or two wandering around (he actually gets himself lost the lower areas because they’re so damn _big_ ), but eventually he ends up in a bedroom.

It’s a really nice one. He vaguely recalls seeing it before when Stark brought him down here, but he wasn’t able to look then obviously. Now he takes the moment, takes in the huge bed with its black silk bedspread, the modern, minimalist décor that seems misplaced on a yacht so expensive, the fact that it seems like no one has _ever_ slept here. Which isn’t possible, unless Stark lied about sailing this ship down (which could be true; how would Steve know?). Still, the unlived-in feel of the room is somewhat off-putting. Steve knows he shouldn’t snoop, but he can’t stop himself from stepping further into the stateroom, from glancing into (unsurprisingly) opulent bathroom, the swanky _walk-in_ closet (how is this possible on a ship this size? The thing’s huge, but it doesn’t seem this big from the outside), the office to the side which is as empty and unused as everything else.

Still, despite the bedroom’s perfect (and therefore cold) appearance, he can’t help but stand there and wonder what it’d be like to have something like this. To stay somewhere this nice. He’s been in rich places before but always at the request of someone else (Peggy basically) and he was never welcomed there. He’s not exactly welcome here, even if Stark invited him to fix his boat, but at least he doesn’t have anyone glaring at him, belittling him, and silently judging him for his mere presence. So he can take a moment to really consider it, what a life like this would really be like. Money and comfort. Not having to work so hard for so little. Not having to worry so much. Buying Maggie what she wants, not just the bare minimum of what she needs. Sending her to Shield Academy or any school of that caliber. Instead of occasionally sneaking a joyride on someone else’s boat, actually having one of his own, and he can take her and go anywhere. Be anything.

_Freedom._

He shakes that idea away. Even if someone offered the opportunity, taking it would leave such a sour taste in his mouth. He’s earned everything he has, fought for it, risen or fallen based on his own strength and determination and merit, and he’s never taken a hand-out. Therefore, fantasies are just that: fantasies. He doesn’t need them. He just needs to fix this ship and get paid.

Before he can walk toward the engine compartment behind the bedroom though, he spots something on the floor. It’s a glint of something silver under the shadows of the bed. Curiosity has him coming closer. The glint is the corner of… a plaque? Confused, Steve pulls it out. It _is_ a plaque, one with the Stark Industries logo. Three logos, actually, that all say Stark Industries, each differently stylized and beside a name. Well, except for the last one. There’s first an older looking font beside the name Edward Stark and the dates 1939-1975. Then there’s a slightly more modern logo with the name Howard Stark beside it and the dates 1975-2008. Finally there’s the current logo; Steve recognizes that from Stark’s business card yesterday, all those sleek lines and sharp angles. But there’s no name or date with that one. That seems odd. Steve’s not sure, but he vaguely remembers Stark – Tony – inherited Stark Industries from his father. Was that Howard? Didn’t Steve read that Howard retired? He must have. In 2008, if the plaque is right.

If Stark – _Tony_ – took over eight years ago, why isn’t his name in that last spot?

Steve sweeps his fingers down the gleaming, flawless surface. There’s a fair bit of space between that last logo, the one that has no name, and the bottom of the plaque. Room for future CEOs, Steve supposes. At the bottom, etched in strong text, is a phrase. He reads it aloud. “Minds rarer than radium.” He doesn’t like the way that sounds, and he’s not sure he likes what it means either. He’s not sure why. He doesn’t know a thing about what this is, and it’s not his business. He steps forward a bit, and his sneaker hits something. He looks down from the plaque and sees an old, brown banker box partway under the bed. It looks like one from the eighties maybe, definitely before the digital age. It’s dusty and full of papers and books. There’s a yellowed envelope on top with _“Tony”_ scrawled on its front in black ink. It’s been ripped open. He wonders if there’s a letter. It’s not in the envelope. Maybe in the huge mess of papers beneath?

_Minds rarer than radium._

Steve shakes his head and puts the plaque into the box and pushes it back beneath the bed. Then he’s up, focused anew, and walking back to the engine compartment. _Figure out what’s wrong and get it fixed._ Right. He can do that.

So he does. He goes into the engine access and starts looking into the problem. Roomy as the space is, it’s still a really tight squeeze, and he’s a big guy. It takes some doing to get in there and in a position to examine the misbehaving engine. For a bit, he’s worried this is going to be a big problem. He’s daunted all over again, because this really is the fanciest engine he’s ever worked on, and if he screws this up…

But once he wedges himself closer and starts digging, he realizes not only can he handle this, there’s something really weird about it. It’s not so much what’s wrong with the engine; that’s obvious as he gets into the fuel pump. He flushes the lines and disconnects them and discovers almost immediately that one of the valves regulating the rate of fuel exiting the pump apparatus is jammed. It’s stuck partially shut, and in this position, not enough gas is getting to the engine, which is causing it to choke. The valve is easy to replace, a standard part, even if it isn’t terribly easy to access. So that’s great, a relief really that not only is this a minor deal but something he can quickly fix.

Still, as Steve frees himself from the compartment with the damaged component and heads back to the shop to get what he needs to replace the valve, he can’t help but wonder at the strangeness of it. Again. If Stark is such a great engineer, why didn’t he figure this out? The guy said he didn’t have time, but Steve located the problem and probably can correct it in a matter of hours. It’s not complicated, not difficult to do, and not even that expensive. Generic, in every sense of the word. Why wouldn’t Stark have taken care of it himself? Why pay someone else and spend all that time looking for a mechanic and delay his trip back north? Is he lazy? Does saving money mean so little to him? Steve’s a fair guy, but he’s going to charge for his time and effort. Why _pay_ to have someone else fix a problem so simple?

“Doesn’t matter,” he tells himself as he sets the valve apparatus down on his workbench in the shop. He doesn’t know why he keeps thinking about this, why he _cares._ Annoyed, he starts trying to pull the valve apart and figure out what’s wrong with it. A few minutes into it, with his hands absolutely covered in gunk and his mood even darker, he discovers a manufacturing fault in the hydraulic parts. He doesn’t think it’s fixable. He can try to take it apart, clean the pieces (although they look pretty new), and reassemble it. Or he can just replace it.

Stark can afford for him to replace it.

“You’re here early.”

Steve glances over his shoulder to see Thor ambling into the work area, carrying that same carburetor he’s been working on for what seems like forever. “No,” Steve comments, going back to the valve, “ _you’re_ here early.”

Thor grunts and offers a huge grin. He looks like a buff version of the Dude from _The_ _Big Lebowski_ with the ratty clothes and the cheap sunglasses and the (ugh) clear plastic sandals. He chugs down some Red Bull before crushing the empty can in his mighty hand and tossing it toward an already overflowing recycling bin. Then he nods towards Steve’s work. “Is that from the rich guy’s boat?”

“Bad valve in the fuel pump system,” Steve replies. “Do we have more of these? I thought you ordered some.” He goes to the supply shelves in the back.

“Have you made some progress on it? Because he’s called twice this morning.”

Steve’s barely listening, sifting through the boxes to find a replacement. “Who?”

“The rich guy. Stark.”

Steve goes cold. Stiffly he leans up, nearly dropping the box with the new valve. He stares at Thor, but Thor’s already getting to work on his carburetor. “He did?” His voice regretfully sounds as weird and excited and mortified as he feels.

“Yes. Called and wanted to know if you’re done yet.”

Steve swallows through a suddenly dry throat. He tries to regain control of his muscles – of his stupid pounding heart and even stupider stalled brain – and goes back to his workbench. “He said I could have all the time I needed, and he’s calling already to ride me on this?”

“No, he said there was no rush,” Thor corrects. “He was very clear on that. But he wants to know how it’s going.”

“It’s freaking ten o’clock in the morning! He dropped it off at closing yesterday!”

“Tell me you are not surprised that a spoiled rich boy wants everything done on his terms.” Steve’s reeling too much to notice the spite in Thor’s voice much. He stares at the valve, at the box for the new one, and just doesn’t get it. Thor grumbles. “And he said he would check in later for an update. As if, what, I am supposed to drop everything to wait for him to deign to call upon us? Bullshit.”

Steve shakes his head. “ _He_ called,” he murmured. Stark took the time to call. Twice. Not one of his undoubtedly many assistants. And he dropped off a boat he could have fixed himself if he tried. Or had one of his people fix. What does all that mean?

 _No._ Steve bites his lip hard and gets to it. He’s going to get this valve replaced, get back out to that yacht and get the fuel pump working, and close the door on this. That’ll be the end of it.

Yet, as he works, he can’t help but think about Stark. The yacht and the bedroom and what he saw in there. The bed and Stark lying in it (what the hell – but once he starts, he doesn’t stop, and he sees Stark there, lush dark hair mussed and eyes glazed with contentment and body stretched long and lax in those black silk sheets). Stark’s eyes and Stark’s smile. That plaque – what is up with that? Why’s it under the bed? And why is Tony’s name missing from it? Why is it on the yacht to begin with, a yacht that has basically nothing else personal on it? And what in the world does Stark want with _him_? It can’t just be a date. Who the hell goes about getting a date like this, anyway?

Steve wanted a distraction but not like this.

“How did it go this morning?”

Thor’s question shocks him. He’s actually gotten so involved in his own thoughts that he stopped working, and he jerks and nearly drops the new valve _again_. “Huh?” Then his brain gets into gear. “Oh. Oh, it went fine. Thanks.”

Thor turns and comes over to him, wiping his hands on a rag. “You seem troubled.”

Is it terrible that he is but not about Maggie and school? And then the second he really starts thinking about Maggie and school… She’s been there a couple hours now. “Just hope it’s going okay,” he says. “Wasn’t easy putting her on the bus.”

Thor appraises him a moment before nodding and putting a greasy hand to his shoulder. “The growth of a child is no simple burden to bear. There is nothing easy about it,” he says softly, gravely, and compassionately. 

Steve just stares. It’s always weird when Thor, this huge, beach hobo mechanic estranged son of a multi-millionaire who’s never been a parent and never even really managed a serious relationship, offers him parenting advice. Weird, but not unwelcome, so he nods. “No, there isn’t.”

Thor bobs his head. “My mother used to tell me that the hardest moment she ever faced was the day she sent my brother and I to preparatory school. The mother bird, as she called herself, pushing her chicks from the nest so they might learn to fly. She found it so painful, but it was a necessary process, she believed, both to prepare us for our lives and to teach us strength in her absence so that we might flourish.” Thor sighs. “Of course, my brother is practically a criminal, and I would hardly call my existence ‘flourishing’. Or ‘flying’, like an adult… bird.” He frowns. “But I believe the sentiment holds true.”

Steve manages a smile. “Yeah.”

Thor smiles, too. He grips Steve’s shoulder harder, squeezing until it almost hurts. “It will be okay. You are an excellent father to that child, Steve.”

Steve’s debated Thor in the past over this, but Thor never seems to accept the truth. Steve’s learned to just let it go. “Thanks.”

“And you should get that boat fixed before Stark calls again,” Thor says, more annoyed again. He grumbles as he goes back to his own work. “Rich asshole. Think they own everything, even people.”

Steve wants to argue about that even more, but again he doesn’t bother. Thor’s relationship with his father (and all of his father’s wealth and prestige) taints stuff like this. He knows Thor would never begrudge Maggie for the family she came from, but he’s always avoided the topic to be extra safe. “Don’t worry,” he says instead, grabbing his newly replaced valve. “I’m on it. Be done right away.”

He goes back to the yacht, gets back down to the engine compartment, and gets the new valve assembly into the fuel pump. It takes only a little while longer to reconnect the fuel lines and make sure everything is okay. After some initial tests, he goes all the way back up to the cockpit and sits in the pilot’s chair. The leather is unbelievably soft and smooth under him, and he winces just touching it with his filthy clothes and grimy hands. It takes him a second to figure out the control board; it’s among the most technologically advanced one he’s ever seen. The ignition is keyless, but Stark gave him some sort of fob with the exterior keys, and with that on the dash he gets the boat turned on. The two engines immediately come to life. The one with the new pump stutters a second; he can feel it in addition to the gauges on the panel showing it. It stabilizes right away, though. _Mission accomplished._ He sits back in the pilot’s chair and sighs, looking out the huge and expansive view ahead at the bay. It really is amazing.

And it’d _really_ be fun to take this baby out to test it. He does that sometimes. Maggie just loves it. Maybe it’s not _entirely_ right, to joy ride like that, but no one ever seems to care. None of his regular and local customers, anyway. Would Stark care? More importantly, does he want to _risk_ it with this million-dollar yacht? _Nope._ He sighs, killing the engines, and gathers up his junk and gets out of there. When Stark’s people come down to collect it, he’ll have them test it out. He’s fairly confident his work is sound, so it’ll be better this way.

After finishing up, he goes to work on some other projects. A few are simpler, so he pushes through those first. A leaky water pump. Bad spark plugs. Another damaged fuel line. It takes him a few hours to work through all that. Then he takes on an outboard engine that’s dead. He’s pretty sure it’s going to require a rather extensive rebuild, so he gets started on that. The work’s satisfying; problem-solving is always something he enjoys. Still, as much as he’s focusing on the job, his worries start to get to him again. Worries about Bucky; it’s not easy to watch your best friend get married, even if Steve’s extremely happy for him. And he knows Bucky knows how that feels. He’s all but admitted to Steve in the past that one of the reasons he re-enlisted after their first tour was Steve’s relationship with Peggy. It’s not resentment in the least. It’s just fear of losing what you have or at the very least having what you have change. Steve’s feeling that now big time, this bittersweet concern that Bucky gaining Natasha means Steve losing Bucky. And that’s totally bullshit, but he’s a worrier, through and through, so he worries.

And he worries and worries and _worries_ about Maggie. There’s no one around him now, so his strong front cracks, and he’s really starting to freak out. Is it going okay? Is she making friends? The questions come and come in a flood. Are the other kids liking her? Does she like her teacher? Is she bored? Is this the right thing to do, or is he ruining her life sending her to a public school when her intelligence demands a place like Shield Academy? _Am I screwing her up?_ It’s a storm of roiling anxiety, and he finds him doing the same damn thing repeatedly with the engine because he can’t focus on the job at hand. This is brutal. The sun’s beating down, and he’s hungry, and he’s tired, and he just wants to drive over to the school and get her.

He doesn’t, though. It’s well after lunchtime, past two o’clock now on this godawful endless day, and if she can tough it out, so can he. No acting like some kind of superhero and sweeping in to save her. She’s fine. The school hasn’t called yet, so everything is–

On the bench beside him, his old cellphone rings. He goes cold where he’s leaning over the outboard engine. For a moment, he’s too shocked to move, staring over his shoulder at the device where it’s vibrating with wide eyes. Then, when the call is dangerously close to going to voicemail, he reaches over and snatches the phone up. “Hello?”

“Just checking in on you, sweet cheeks. How’s my boat?”

Steve was so prepared for it to be a disaster at the school that he doesn’t recognize the voice at all for a second. Flustered, he shakes his head. “Mr. Stark?” he finally manages.

“What? You don’t recognize my voice? Wow. Well, we’ll need to work on that.”

For some reason, even though it’s totally irrational, Steve glances around all over. All he sees is an empty marina filled with boats. “Where are you? I don’t – I mean… I mean, how did you get this number?”

“New York is where I am,” comes the even, slightly amused response. “And your buddy gave your number to me.”

“What?” Steve squints and shakes his head again, like Stark can actually see him. He sinks down on the bench. Hiding. Yeah, that makes sense. “My buddy?”

“Deep voice. Keeps answering the phone at your business. I think it must be that big guy from yesterday who was giving me the stink eye. The one who looks like the Dude? You know, His Dudeness or Duder or El Duderino.” Steve can’t stop an honest, small smile. Apparently he’s not the only one who’s made that connection. “To be fair, I guess me calling like five hundred times today probably didn’t do much to make him like me more. Gonna have to work on that, too.” _What?_ What in the world is going on with this guy? Steve’s too utterly flummoxed to even think. “Anyway, he was kind enough to give me your cellphone number. Which is probably a piece of crap, given the call quality right now. You want me to send you a new Stark phone? The next model will blow your mind with all the cool shit it can do, I promise you. It’s really–”

“No, no!” Steve sits on the bench and rubs his forehead. “No, I don’t want a new phone.”

“It’s really not a problem. I own the company, you know. I can give out freebies. In fact, I can give you guys a new computer system, new phones, maybe just bulldoze that swill-pit you call a mechanics workshop and build you a new one. You know what? You should come up and see my sandbox here on 5th Avenue. It’s a beauty, if I do say so myself. I’m really proud of it, and anybody with any affinity for engines and engineering would probably find it pretty kickass, so I’m betting you might like it.”

Is that another proposition? Steve grimaces. “Do you always talk this much?”

“So I’ve been told. Also I’m apparently the worst chatty Cathy in bed ever.” Steve groans. God, he did not need to know that. And that’s _definitely_ another proposition. “It’s my default reaction to nerves and feels and junk like that. Why, is it annoying?”

“No, I just–”

“And you didn’t answer my question, Steve Rogers the Boat Mechanic, which I have to ask because I’ve been thinking about you a lot since yesterday and I know I said I’d give you some time but patience is not a virtue. For me. Anyway, my question is: if I came down there today, would you go out with me tonight?”

Steve goes cold again, which is a really uncomfortable feeling with the Florida sun intent on baking him to a crisp. That’s not a proposition. That’s a blatant pass. _Another_ one. “You didn’t – you asked me if your boat was done!” he replies shortly.

“Well, this is my real question, because your buddy told me you were almost finished the last time I called, and you seem like the hard-working, conscientious type, which probably means you polished off the job, thought about testing it and decided it wasn’t worth the liability–” Steve grimaces again, scrubbing his hand down his face. “–and then put off calling me for some reason. I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”

That’s said jokingly, but there’s something in Stark’s voice. Steve can hear it despite the crappy call quality. It’s sincerity. Honest to God concern. He _wants_ Steve to like him. Which doesn’t exactly jive with a man out to own him (like Thor not so subtly implied earlier) or use him or sleep with him and drop him flat or whatever it is Stark wants with him. That’s dizzying, because what in the world would a man like Tony Stark want with a guy like him? And Stark can’t have any idea that he’d be receptive to this. Hell, _Steve_ doesn’t even know if he’s receptive to it. He hasn’t thought about it before. He’s never been interested in another man.

Then again, he’s never had a genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist interested in _him_.

 _No._ He’s not interested, and that’s not because it’s a man. It’s because he’s _not interested._ Period. “Your boat’s finished,” he says evenly, sitting up straighter. “It was a faulty valve. Five hundred or so for the repair and the new part. You can send your people down whenever you like. I can send you the invoice or we can settle it in person. Cash or credit.”

It’s quiet. Steve doesn’t know how to take that. He doesn’t know why either, but he feels like an asshole. “Did you _actually_ test it? Because you can. Of course you can. There aren’t any liability issues. I didn’t say that explicitly but I won’t hold you responsible for anything–”

“Mr. Stark, please,” Steve says, and, damn it, that sounds like begging. Why is he begging? “Just come get your boat.”

“I’m not trying to be creepy here,” Stark says. “Even though it’s probably coming off creepy. Probably. Maybe.” He pauses a moment, like he’s thinking. “Okay, yeah, definitely. And I’m really not trying to push you.” He pauses again. “Okay, I am. But I’m doing it because I think maybe you need it?” Steve’s huff must have been audible over the call. “Okay! Okay, sorry. I’m really screwing this up. I don’t want to. I just want to understand, because I have this feeling about you, a really _good_ feeling, and I don’t get those too often, and I don’t want to let that slip away without figuring out what it’s about.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants to deny it, to downplay it, but he can’t, because… Well, he has to admit it to himself at least. He has that feeling, too. He’s been working like mad to deny it since yesterday, but the fact that Tony’s eyes stuck with him all last night, the fact that he’s so curious, that he can’t let this go either… The fact that he feels bad about ending anything. He keeps telling himself to shut this down, but he’s not. He hasn’t. Why?

Stark sighs. “Look, I want to be clear about something. Despite what you might have read about me or heard or whatever… I’m not that guy. I have screwed up a ton in the past, and I don’t deny that, but I’m not some rich, arrogant asshole looking to get my rocks off with anything with a heartbeat. And I don’t use people. If you really don’t like me, if you don’t want to go out with me and give me a hard no right here and now… I’m going to respect that.”

Maybe that’s meant to be comforting, but Steve doesn’t like the implication that he can’t protect himself. Par for the course with rich people. They demean you even when they’re trying to be nice because _they don’t get you_ and think just because you’re poor, you’re weak or stupid or defenseless or freaking _need_ protecting _._ “Mr. Stark, come on.”

“If I come down there tonight,” Stark says again, slower like annunciating the words makes them more meaningful, “will you please go out with me?”

Faced with it like that, bold and undeniable and right in front of him… _Say no._ He wants to. He knows he should. Stark promising all this stuff… What does that really mean? Would someone looking to have a good time with him and then drop him honestly _tell_ him that that’s his goal? No way. He’d say _exactly_ what Stark just did, manipulate his mark into trusting him with a few “respectful” promises and then do what he wants anyway. Steve has no cause to believe any of it.

But he does. He really does. He can’t deny it, and he can’t say no.

He ends up not having to. His phone beeps in his ear, and he pulls it away, swallowing the rock in his throat. His eyes widen, and his heart drops into his stomach when he sees the number. It’s a local one. His phone doesn’t recognize who it is, but somehow he just _knows._ “I have to call you back, Mr. Stark.”

“Wait–”

Steve doesn’t listen, jabbing his thumb into the SEND button to accept the new call. He can hardly breathe. “Hello?”

“Mr. Rogers?”

He sucks in a shallow breath. “Yeah, this is Steve Rogers.”

The woman’s voice on the other side of the line gets grim. “It’s Insight Elementary. We need to speak with you about Margaret. Is now a good time?”

 _Oh, no._ “Yeah… Go ahead.”

* * *

The elementary school is really nice. Steve’s only been there once before for orientation a couple weeks back, but as far as public schools go, he thinks it’s a good one. The grounds are well kept with palms and bright Florida flowers. The walkways are nice. The building is well maintained, both in and out. To be honest, as he quickly makes his way into the main office with its tiled floors and cinderblock walls and posters and signs hung about, it reminds him of his own elementary school back in Brooklyn. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. He met Bucky there and forged a bond that is certainly lasting a lifetime.

But he got picked _on a lot_. And he spent more than his fair share of time in the principal’s office for fighting (usually because he defended himself or someone else, but school administration didn’t always care about that). This isn’t exactly the same, but being _summoned_ to the principal as a parent rather than sent there as a kid… The feeling’s not much better. He tentatively steps inside, and right away he spots Maggie sitting glumly by the door, kicking her feet and scowling. The second she sees him, she’s up and running over, throwing her arms around his waist. “You okay?” he asks.

She doesn’t get a chance to answer. There’s an older man coming closer in a surprisingly nice, gray three-piece suit. He’s got red hair that’s a little long, disheveled, and streaked with white, and a wrinkly, aged face that speaks of being surprisingly old for working. He’s a little bent, but that doesn’t detract from a very stern and commanding presence. Part of that comes from his eyes, which are extremely sharp, beady, and not at all friendly despite the little smile on his weathered lips. Behind the man, there’s a young woman with a bit of an owlish face. She’s pale but very pretty. Her hair’s dark brown and done up in a loose bun, and she’s dressed… Well, like a teacher. She’s got a dark pencil skirt on and a red blouse and a fair amount of inexpensive jewelry, which isn’t gaudy but seems misplaced. She looks worried but kind.

The man looks anything but. “Mr. Rogers?”

Steve takes his hand from Maggie’s head where she’s buried it against his hip and offers it. “Yeah, hi.”

The man – the principal, clearly – shakes Steve’s hand. That grim smile gets tighter and more condescending. “I’m Dr. Pierce. I’m sorry to say that Margaret had a little problem today in class.”

Steve already knows the story. The lady who called him – the vice principal – told him all about it. “Yeah, I’m really sorry. First day jitters, I guess. It won’t happen again.” Pierce just stares, completely unimpressed with what probably seems to him to be a rote response. Steve tries for a disarming smile. “She made it most the day without a problem, so I guess that’s something, though, right?”

Pierce presses his thin lips together. He’s obviously far more convinced with making an impression than comforting a new student having a rough time or said student’s caretaker. “We don’t tolerate insubordination at Insight. While we understand the first day of school can be challenging for some, we want to nip this sort of poor behavior in the bud, if you will, and stress to young and impressionable minds that respecting authority figures is expected of them.”

 _They’re six year olds._ And Maggie’s not even six yet. She’s still five. Regardless, that’s ridiculous to expect of small children. Sure, you don’t let them get away with mouthing off, but you don’t send them to the principal or make a big stink about it like this. “I’m sorry. Is there more to it?” he asks calmly but a bit defensively. “I was told it was just the one incident.”

“Oh, it was,” the woman says from behind Pierce. She must be Maggie’s teacher. “She had a little trouble adjusting this morning, but it wasn’t until…” Pierce shoots her a quick glare, and she shuts up. Steve frowns. _Great._

“She was disrespectful directly toward me, Mr. Rogers,” Pierce explains. “I was there in the classroom when it happened, and I cannot permit that sort of behavior, particularly in front of the other children. What sort of precedent does that set?”

Steve supposes that’s true, but this still seems a little drastic to him. Obviously Dr. Pierce runs this school with an iron fist, if the teacher standing behind him and looking rather cowed is any indication. “Well, I really do apologize,” he offers sincerely, and not just because he wants to get out of there. He says that more to the teacher than Pierce. “I’ll talk to her. It won’t happen again.”

Pierce doesn’t seem to buy that any more now than he did moments before. He’s scrutinizing Steve like he can see right through him, right to the truth, and that’s disconcerting as hell. It’s even harder to resist the urge to run. “Maggie, you need to apologize.” Steve looks down at her, where she’s still clinging to him with an iron grip. “Maggie.” She still doesn’t move. “Margaret, right now.”

He so rarely ever calls her that, and it gets her moving. “Sorry, Dr. Pierce,” she murmurs like getting out each word is torturous.

Steve might have rolled his eyes or even smiled anywhere else. Here he just bites his tongue and looks at Pierce directly. Normally he doesn’t care for conflict, particularly when he’s always so scared of being caught, but this is kind of bullshit. “I’m really sorry.”

Pierce holds his ground a moment more, threatening, but then he finally nods. He crouches to look Maggie in the eye. Steve supposes that’s meant to appear he’s coming down to her level, but it seems like a bunch of show. “Let’s have a better day tomorrow, Margaret, okay?”

Steve feels Maggie nod. He wraps his arm around her in a silent show of solidarity. “Thanks for calling me.” He offers his other hand again, and Pierce stands and shakes it. The look in his eye is not at all warm or understanding. Then Steve turns and leaves the office and the school, his grip on Maggie’s backpack implacable. It’s almost three o’clock. If he hurries, he can beat the buses and hopefully get the hell out of there before anyone else talks to him.

He doesn’t. He only makes it just a few steps down the walk toward where he parked his truck before someone’s shouting his name behind him. “That’s my teacher,” Maggie grumbles into his jeans, “probably coming to tell me what one plus one is.”

“Go to the car,” Steve orders, nudging her forward. For once she just follows his directions. He sucks in a breath to bolster himself and turns around to greet the person he can hear running toward him.

It is Maggie’s teacher, the young woman who’d been with the principal. Steve really doesn’t want to do this. Salvation is parked right there, so darn close it’s maddening. “Mr. Rogers! Wait, Mr. Rogers!” she calls, and he has no choice but to stop. “Mr. Rogers, hi. I’m Wanda Maximoff, Maggie’s teacher.”

Steve turns around. The young woman seems as sweet and soft-spoken as he thought before. “Hi. Look, again, I’m very sorry about today. You know, Maggie just gets anxious, and she runs her mouth and says stuff she doesn’t mean, and–”

Miss Maximoff shakes her head, wisps of brown hair falling free of her bun as she does. “No, no, it’s alright. I don’t even really want to talk about that.”

“I have to get going,” Steve argues instead, reaching into his jeans pocket for his keys. “Really. I have a load of work to do–”

“I’ll only keep you a second,” Miss Maximoff insists, and Steve’s heart’s racing all over again. He feels like he dodged a bullet with Pierce, and he doesn’t want to risk anything else. For crying out loud, it’s only the first day. Can’t they get that under their belt without any trouble? 

Apparently not. Miss Maximoff doesn’t beat around the bush, either. “I think your daughter is gifted,” she says a bit breathlessly.

As bad as it was before, _this_ is worse. Steve just stands there, squinting into the afternoon sun and staring. Behind them, kids are starting to exit the building and head toward their buses, and the noise is pretty remarkable. Teachers are in the ruckus, guiding the youngsters to where they need to be, and for a second he thinks to deflect, to tell Miss Maximoff that she should tend to her class (like he has _any_ authority to do that), to say anything to put this to rest, because even though he _knew_ this could happen, and Natasha told him it would happen, he never actually thought he’d have to deal with it, let alone _today_.

But here he is. And he doesn’t say anything. He continues to stand, stare, and a silent beat goes on. He can’t get over the cold shock of surprise, can’t even _think_. Miss Maximoff feels the need to explain, like he doesn’t understand _exactly_ what she’s talking about. “She answered some _really_ tough questions in math today. Things a kindergartner shouldn’t be able to do? Things that _I_ can’t do in my head. Things that–”

“Oh, no, no,” he finally manages. He tries to seem calm and unbothered. “No, that’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Mr. Rogers. It’s–”

“Trachtenburg,” Steve throws in.

Miss Maximoff cocks her head, even more confused. “What?”

Steve tries to think. He looked this up months ago as some sort of explanation of Maggie’s capabilities if he was ever faced with this. Now’s a good time to use it. “Trachtenberg. He was a Jewish mathematician who developed a way to rapidly multiply numbers to solve problems. In a concentration camp, no less.”

She just stares at him. “But she’s… I mean, she’s five. That’s still…”

“My dad taught her.” This is his back-up lie. “He was really into math. Worked for NASA for a bit.”

“Oh.” She seems genuinely surprised. Why wouldn’t she be? And he feels a bit bad for lying to her, but there’s no choice. “What do you do? I mean, for a living.”

Like it’s not obvious from the way he looks. And he can’t tell if that’s a natural segue or a commentary on nature versus nurture. Maybe it would be, if any of it were true. “I fix boats.”

“Ah.” She tries for a smile. “Okay, well, anyway, I think your daughter might be–”

Steve goes on. “Her grandpa loved a good party trick. He spent a lot of time teaching Maggie this before he died.”

Grief passes the teacher’s face at the sudden turn in conversation, and she immediately backs off. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Happened last year. But he and Maggie were close.” This feels dirtier by the second, but he’s played this card before. Death in the family tends to be a sensitive subject that puts people off. Natasha taught him that a while back. He pours all the confidence and nonchalance he can muster into his act, pulling his sunglasses from his shirt and sliding them on. “So it’s kind of a thing to her. Trachtenberg.”

Miss Maximoff looks absolutely flummoxed, probably now by the implication that he knows Maggie can multiple or at least memorize products and sums before even starting school and hasn’t acted on it. Steve doesn’t let her say more. He starts backing away, keys to his truck in hand. “I really appreciate your concern and your understanding. And I’m still sorry about the thing today. It won’t happen again.”

“Okay, Mr. Rogers,” Miss Maximoff says, although it’s pretty obvious she’s not convinced.

Steve doesn’t stop, heading to his truck. He turns and gives her a wave once he reaches the driver’s door. “Nice to meet you. Have a good rest of your day.”

“You too,” she answers.

Then he gets in. Maggie’s sitting beside him in the passenger seat, watching him, and the expression on her face is equal parts apprehension and determination. He knows what she’s going to say before she even says it. “It’s not my fault! She was asking all kinds of stupid things and–”

“Save it,” Steve says, and he turns on the truck and drives away without looking back.

* * *

They make it most of the way back to the marina before Maggie tries again. She’s been sitting in her seat, glowering out the front. Most of her hair’s loose of its braid, and her dress is a little mussed (from play it looks like), but she seems fine for all the trouble she’s caused. That only heightens Steve’s irritation. If someone was picking on her or if she was honestly scared or something, that’d be one thing. What actually happened? That’s something else.

If there’s one thing he knows about Maggie, though, is that she can’t stand having him mad at her. “It really wasn’t my fault,” she finally says quietly, breaking the heavy silence. “And, for the record, I told you this morning that I didn’t want to go to this stupid school in the first place. All the questions she asked were dumb.”

Steve sighs, staring at the road ahead as he drives. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. That’s all he’s been thinking since leaving the school. Maybe Natasha and Bucky are right. Maybe Maggie’s right. Maybe public school isn’t the right course. Already there are eyes on Maggie, eyes on him, and it’s only the first day. The first day of thousands, of thirteen _years_ if not more. If she can’t handle one day… “Uh-huh.”

“And the boy next to me was acting inappropriately.”

“Uh-huh.”

“For a _child._ ” Maggie shakes her head, folding her thin arms over her chest. “He stared at me all day. And you have to have a pass to go to the bathroom.”

Steve says nothing to that, gripping the steering wheel harder as he makes the turn toward the marina. If she doesn’t do this school… _She needs school._ Private school – Shield Academy – may be just as difficult. He can’t home school her; he wasn’t kidding about not being smart enough. So where does that leave him? _And isn’t this the point? To teach her how to go to school? How to be a kid?_ He can’t toss this whole idea out because of a pitfall. What he thought before when Pierce was talking to him is right: these are five year olds. Babies. You can’t expect them to simply _know_ how to act. _He_ can’t expect this to all be smooth sailing.

“–for lunch. I don’t like chicken patties, but I don’t like what you packed me either, and are you even listening to me?”

Steve pulls the truck back into the marina’s parking lot. He takes his normal spot next to Thor’s beat-up, old VW bug (how he fits in that thing is beyond Steve) and turns the engine off. Then he sighs again. “I’m passive-aggressively ignoring you.”

Maggie frowns, her lips pursed in a pout and eyes narrowed. “What’s passive-aggressive mean?”

Steve tips his head back in exasperation. Then he gets out of the truck. “It means I’m mad at you and I want you to know it while trying not to be confrontational about it,” he explains, “but here we are. Confrontation it is.”

Maggie gets out, too. She still has her backpack on. “Other kids answer questions and they don’t get in trouble.”

Steve shakes his head, locking up the truck and heading toward the marina gates. “You didn’t get in trouble for answering questions! You yelled at the principal and demanded that he call me to take you home. Which, ironically, _he did._ So, look! You got what you wanted!”

Maggie has the decency to at least _look_ ashamed. “I didn’t want that.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And…” She shakes her head. “And he didn’t seem like a nice man.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve replies, turning to wait for her as she shuffles her feet in the dirt and sand toward him. “You can’t do that! Kindergartners _do not_ yell at their principals. Or their teachers. Or anyone at school. Are you allowed to yell at an adult?”

“No,” Maggie murmurs.

“Then you don’t yell at school. Period.”

The shame gets more genuine now. She comes over and takes his hand, looking up at him. “Steve, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Steve shakes his head in annoyance, looking around just to avoid those huge brown eyes. “Uh-huh.” He has to address the bigger problem. He just has to. “You can’t show off at school, Maggie. We talked about this.” Now Maggie drops her gaze. “You promised you wouldn’t and then the very first day you’re there–”

“I’m know,” she says. “I screwed up.” Steve doesn’t think she does know. How do you explain to a very perceptive, extremely intelligent five year old that she needs to hide the smarts she possesses? That she’s different, but she has to act the same? And the reasoning behind it. The red flags it’ll raise and the attention it’ll garner. How can she understand the implications of that?

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He didn’t before, and he still doesn’t. He just says the same rules, begging more than reminding. “You gotta keep the math stuff under wraps, okay? It’s really important. If it gets out–”

“I know,” she says again. “I really do, and I’m sorry.”

Steve watches her, watches those sharp brown eyes watch him in turn. Now they’re so full of love and a little teary. It’s almost more than he can take. “Alright,” he finally says. He drops his hand to her head for a second, but that’s not enough, so he takes her backpack from her and slings it over his own shoulder before lifting her into his arms. He kisses her mussed hair and rubs her back. “Alright. I know you’re sorry.”

She buries her face into the nape of his neck. “Still like me?” she mumbles.

He can’t fight off a grin. “Yeah, you dork. I still like you.”

She doesn’t seem to want to get down, and that’s fine. After being apart for this endless day, he’s happy to hang onto her. So he walks into the marina, heading toward the boat which he was fixing before the call from the school came in. “How much longer you gotta work?” she asks after a moment, leaning up from his shoulder to look around. 

Just like that, the whole debacle seems to be forgotten. “Little bit.”

“Any of the boats need a test drive?”

Steve chuckles and glances around, trying to think. Before he can answer, though, there’s a voice coming from the dock ahead. A shockingly familiar voice. “Hey, Steve Rogers the Boat Mechanic!”

Steve turns, backpedals, and quickly sets Maggie down. He pushes her behind him, too startled to think, to do anything, as Tony Stark stands from one of the benches near the dock. He looks fantastic, dressed in another rich suit and different leather loafers. When he pulls off his sunglasses, though, his eyes are as wide as saucers and his face goes lax. He seems just as shocked as Steve feels, and he shakes his head in a mixture of awe and alarm for what feels like forever before throwing up his arms. “Well,” he finally says, staring at Maggie. “… _shit_.”


	4. Chapter 4

An eternity passes with the three of them just staring at one another. Well, more accurately, with Stark staring at Maggie. What he can see of her behind Steve’s legs at any rate. For his own part, Steve just stands there. Part of him wants to run; that’s his natural inclination in situations like this, to facing scrutiny as intense as Stark’s is right now. The other part of him frankly wants to stand his ground, because he can hear what the other man’s not saying, what Stark probably wants to do. Run, too. Run and get away from this, because surely all this interest he has in Steve is just going to fizzle with the truth staring at him right in the face with her backpack and dress and mussed hair and huge brown eyes.

But Stark doesn’t run, and neither does Steve, and this parade of awful, silent seconds marches onward. It feels like it’s just dragging out the inevitable and it’s completely excruciating. Despite never considering dating much, Steve’s always thought about this in back of his mind. In addition to _poor_ and _uneducated_ , _single parent_ is not a characteristic most people tend to like. He’s always used that as a backup excuse, that anyone he might find interesting will be immediately turned off by the fact that Maggie’s in his life. That he’s taking care of a five year old. Who’s going to want to take on that? _Stark?_ There’s no way. All the sudden Stark’s faced with the reality that the guy he’s trying to woo and win over is saddled with a kid… Yeah, there’s just _no way_ he won’t drop Steve like a ton of bricks and bolt. And that hurts, even though Steve knows it’ll be a relief if Stark does it. It hurts because Maggie’s not some poison or complication or annoyance. It hurts, because watching the emotions flash across Stark’s perfect face is awful in its own right, the confusion and the shock and the dismay, and Steve knows that flux is going to settle on disgust and disappointment any second.

But Stark _still_ doesn’t run. He just gawks like he’s never seen a kid before. Maybe he hasn’t, not really. The guy lives a crazy, wealthy, extravagant, _wild_ life. How many children has he ever met, ever talked to, ever interacted with? His gaze finally shifts back to Steve, and he nods, like he’s figuring something out. “Okay, uh… Yeah, sorry for the bad language? But… Wow. This? _This_ makes a lot of sense,” Stark finally declares.

Maggie’s peeking out from behind Steve, and he pushes her back again. “What are you doing here?” he asks shortly.

Stark frowns. “I told you I was coming,” he says plainly. The sunglasses go back on. “Remember?”

Steve’s too rattled to think. Some part of him knows Stark did say that, multiple times no less. He said he’d be down to get an answer to his question. About a date. Steve winces, but before he can say anything, send Stark packing with his yacht never to return, Maggie escapes his grasp and plants herself right beside him. She’s staring at Stark with that set of her jaw, that stubborn clench that came directly from her mother. “Who’re you?” she demands.

Stark nearly does a double take, like he can’t fathom this even more, that this little person is talking to him and talking to him _like that_. “Um… Tony Stark?” Maggie plants her hands on her hips wrinkles her nose at that a little, as if it means something to her. It can’t possibly. “Who’re you?” Stark asks with just as much attitude as she’s giving him.

“Maggie Rogers,” she says proudly, and Steve has no idea what’s going on. Maggie’s not a shy kid by any means, but she’s also not the precocious type, and she knows better than to talk to people she doesn’t know. Steve’s told her that over and over again, that she has to be careful. Apparently she’s forgetting all the rules today.

Stark cocks an eyebrow. He glances at her backpack and dress. Steve’s back to not being to tell a thing about what he’s thinking with those damn sunglasses on. “Huh. Your dad just, uh, pick you up from school? Or something?”

Steve interjects before Maggie can say more, gripping the handle of her backpack and steering her back toward the marina’s office. “I can take you down to your boat, Mr. Stark, and we can finish up the paperwork. Just let me get her settled in the office and then–”

“You have a boat?” Maggie asks, shrugging free of his grasp.

Stark’s still just standing there. He frowns. “Uh, yeah. Your dad’s been fixing it.”

“And it’s done,” Steve says quickly, trying to usher this along because that feeling is back, the one where he’s walking along a razor thing edge of something, the one where he’s treading closer and closer to some point of no return, and he doesn’t like it. “So if you want, Mr. Stark, we can get this taken care of right now–”

Maggie tugs on Steve’s hand. “But if you fixed it, doesn’t it need a test drive?”

 _Oh, no._ “No, it’s fine,” he declares right away.

But it’s too late. Stark’s already grinning, which seems all kinds of strange, because this conversation is going on with him there _with Maggie_ , and the other man hasn’t made some excuse to drop it yet. “That’s what I told him. Maybe he’ll listen if it comes from you.” Stark says that, and there’s this teasing, playful note to his voice.

Maggie turns to Steve, and just like that she’s pouring it on. Her beautiful brown eyes turn huge and pleading, and she adopts this particular pout that always melts Steve’s heart. “Come on,” she begs, tugging on his hand more. “Please? Please? Can we?”

This is a horrendously bad idea. Steve knows that for sure, even if his head’s spinning a bit from what’s happening and how fast it’s happening to boot. Maggie’s just bouncing in excitement, and Steve glances from her to Stark, who’s actually quiet for once. How is it this guy hardly knows him and just met Maggie seconds ago and he’s already gaming the situation to his advantage? Maybe that could be malicious, another sign he should get himself and now Maggie out of this as soon as possible, but inexplicably Steve knows it’s not. This isn’t Stark trying to manipulate him or trying to manipulate Maggie or, God forbid, _using_ Maggie to get to him. If that’s what it turns out to be, Steve will teach him a lesson he’s not soon to forget, money and power be damned. But he _knows_ it’s not.

“Please! Please!” Maggie tugs harder, getting more and more emphatic and impatient. “Come on, you said you still love me!”

Stark tips his head. “Aw. How can you not if you love her?” he asks Steve.

Totally flummoxed, Steve looks from him to Maggie. “And he’s probably got a really cool boat because he’s dressed cool.”

Stark looks down at his suit. “I am dressed cool,” he muses, like he doesn’t know _exactly_ how charming he looks, “and my boat is really cool.”

“Please?” Maggie begs, just tip-toeing the line between annoying and endearing as small kids do. _“Please?”_

“Pretty please?” Stark chimes in. “With a cherry on top?”

Steve sighs. This is ridiculous, and there’s no way he can win. Turning down Stark is one thing, the _only_ thing he’s been doing the last twenty-four hours it feels like. But turning down Maggie? “Alright,” he says finally, knowing he’s going to regret this.

Maggie immediately explodes in excitement, and she runs towards Stark – _runs,_ even though she doesn’t know him. Stark looks horrified for a second, that suave charade disappearing as the full effect of what he’s made happen, a child who’s now in the picture that he maybe can’t or won’t deal with, practically hits him in the legs. “Maggie, wait!” She’s not really aiming for Stark, brushing by him on the dock to get to where she knows the bigger boats are. Steve sighs. “Don’t run.”

She turns around and gives him a defiant pout, but she’s not winning that one. He firmly stares back, the admonishment clear in his gaze because she’s gotten away with way too much misbehavior today. Then she turns, walks back, and hands Steve her backpack. “Okay.” Then she turns to Stark. “Is your boat big?” 

Stark just stares as if he’s back to not quite believing his eyes. “Um… Yeah.”

Maggie grins, her earlier reprimand forgotten. “And is it fast?”

“Definitely,” Stark replies with a little more confidence.

Maggie turns back to Steve. The two men haven’t moved, and she’s clearly not having that. She’s grabbing Steve’s hand again and tugging even more impatiently. “So let’s go then. You just said–”

“Yeah.” Steve starts walking, and Stark follows. Maggie lets go of his hand right away and starts skipping down the dock as fast as she can without running.

It takes all of a second for the tension between Steve and the other enigmatic man to skyrocket. Steve’s skin is crawling with the awkward discomfort, and he keeps glancing at Stark. Stark is looking around nonchalantly, almost pointedly, and he’s doing a pretty poor job of hiding the glances _he’s_ stealing. The docks are quiet, the whole marina’s quiet, and this is too much. “I’m sorry about this,” Steve finally offers.

Stark turns his head slightly, glancing at him as they reach the more private areas of the marina. “Well, she just got you to do something in about a second that I haven’t been able to do in a day of trying.” Confused, Steve turns to him with a furrowed brow. Stark grins. “Make you let your guard down for even a second.”

 _Damn it._ “Mr. Stark–”

“Tony,” he corrects not unkindly. He flashes a bit of that charismatic smile. “If I’m taking your daughter out on my boat, you have to call me Tony.” Steve grimaces. “What? No one else has ever made such a sour face over my name. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“It’s not that–”

“I know it’s not that. I’m just teasing. You’re so serious all the time.” Tony stops at where the dock turns. Maggie’s getting further and further ahead, bouncing impatiently, and he’s watching her and shaking his head. He turns back to Steve. “Which makes this kinda weird? That smart, sassy bundle of energy is _your_ kid?”

Steve’s blood goes cold. There’s no way Stark could _know_ , right? He wouldn’t, unless he has someone _investigating_ Steve or something. Even still, the truth isn’t exactly on the surface; the investigator would have to dig for it, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since they met, so the odds of anyone finding anything have to be _small_ –

“There you go with the frown again.” Tony’s voice pulls him from his panicked spiral. “You frown an awful lot, Steve Rogers the Boat Mechanic.”

Steve grits his teeth a little, slowing in his stride. “Stop calling me that.”

Tony gets a step or two beyond before turning to him. “Okay. Fine. Can we both be on first names then? If I’m Tony, and I better be, then you can be just Steve. Cool?” He says that with a hopeful smirk.

Steve’s not nearly so hopeful. What smidgen of confident and bravery he felt before fades abruptly. “Mr. Stark, you don’t have to–”

“Tony,” Tony corrects again, his tone a little sing-song with the additional reminder.

Steve bites the inside of his lip. “Tony,” he says with effort. Tony smiles, obviously intensely pleased even though he really had to work that out of Steve. “You don’t have to do this. You can just take the yacht and go.”

“I don’t know much – or anything, I guess – about kids, but something tells me there’ll be tears if I back out now. I don’t like making people cry, even mini-people.” Tony steps closer, and – good God – the jolt of electricity racing over Steve’s nerves from head to toe is incredible. He can’t describe it, this mixture of nervousness and fear and joy and _want_ , and it’s so sudden and intoxicating that it nearly takes his breath away. Tony grins again, and this time it’s veritably oozing charm. “Plus, I gotta admit, I didn’t see this coming. You have to understand something here: _that’s_ not something I can usually admit. That I didn’t figure something out. I can usually, and I’ve been trying to figure you out since yesterday, hence coming down here again. That was my plan. Woo you and get more info. But this? It’s throwing me for a loop.”

Steve frowns. “I’m not some puzzle for you to solve.” _Or some kind of prize for you to win if you do._

“No, but this makes you even more interesting. Kinda explains the why but not so much the what, who, or the how.”

There went any hope that the concept of Steve having a kid would put Tony off. Not that Steve’s sure he wanted it to, and he doesn’t quite feel relief that it hasn’t. He’s not sure know what to feel at all. His head’s just this mess of anxiety, and he kind of doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.

Tony seems to realize he’s got Steve so wildly off-kilter. His grin softens a bit, and he finally takes off his sunglasses. “I still want to know about all that. If you’re willing to tell me.” The urge to instantly and fervently declare that _he’s not_ never makes it out of Steve’s brain. Even there, it’s hardly more than a knee-jerk grunt of a thing. He’s too busy staring in Tony’s eyes. They’re brown _with_ gold, really very stunning now that he can see them again in person. He didn’t notice the gold before, and right now, with the sunlight in them…

“Are you coming?” Maggie’s shout gets Steve’s attention, and he drops his gaze, his cheeks burning. Getting away is all he can think to do, and he quickly heads down the dock with huge strides. Ahead Maggie’s getting to the last section of the dock where the yacht is. She stops there, and her eyes go huge. “Whoa…” Even after seeing it earlier today and being inside it, Steve still finds the yacht breath-taking and beautiful. He knows it’s the largest boat Maggie has ever seen by far. She turns and hops up and down in barely restrained excitement. “This is amazing!”

Steve sighs. “Reel it in, kiddo,” he murmurs as he stands behind her and gets his hands on her small shoulders. To himself, he adds, _and get it together._

Maggie’s not too interested in restraint. “Can we get on? Can we?”

Tony comes to stand beside them, sliding his no doubt thousand-dollar sunglasses back on. “Yeah, sure,” he answers, and he steps across to the yacht. Maggie twists free of Steve and follows, but it’s an awfully big gap for her, and she almost doesn’t make it. Horrified, Steve reaches for her, but Tony is faster, gripping her arm and steadying her. “Easy there!”

Fear flashes in Maggie’s eyes. Steve immediately jumps up behind her, pulling her from Tony’s hands. “Thanks,” he says.

Tony lets her go like she burned him. He looks shocked. “Uh, you’re welcome?” Then he turns to Maggie. “Anyone ever tell you to look before you leap?”

Maggie’s forehead furrows, and she looks up at Steve. “Means don’t rush into things.” She frowns like she still doesn’t get it, and Steve sighs, stroking her hair and pulling her back into his lower body. “You gotta be careful.” As if he hasn’t said that a thousand times before about a lot of things.

The warning seems to cement the connection to her that she’s dealing with a total stranger. It’s still mind-boggling to him that she’s this okay with Stark. She’s hardly been around other adults besides Bucky and Natasha and occasionally Thor. Now she’s scared enough to cling, grabbing onto Steve’s leg and holding tight. Steve rubs her back, appraising Tony. He’s about to suggest that they give up on this (maybe with Maggie this rattled, she’ll agree without making a fuss), but he doesn’t. Not with the way Tony’s looking at him, at _them_. At their little family. The air between them changes, and suddenly this isn’t about a date anymore. Yet again Steve can’t see his eyes with those sunglasses on, but he can practically picture the tentative hope, this intense _want_ of something only he’s not sure what. It’s obvious in the tension in Tony’s body, the way he’s standing stiffly like he can’t believe what just happened. The way his fingers are clenching at his sides like he’s still grasping Maggie, like he wants that contact again. 

For the first time since they met yesterday, Stark seems well and truly off his game.

Steve clears his throat, ending the awkward beat of silence. “You still want to do this?” He’s not sure who he’s asking.

And they both answer at any rate. Maggie nods against his hip, and Tony seems to flip some internal switch. Gone is the uncertainty, the surprise, that very vulnerable flash of something, and back is the eccentric billionaire who won’t take “no” for an answer. “Of course,” he says flippantly, and then he’s leading them inside the yacht.

It’s pretty stupid to be surprised by how luxurious it is, especially after being inside it numerous times at this point. Steve still is. Every time he notices something new, like the LED lighting around the counter in the lounge area or the fact that quite a few of the bottles are nearly empty at the bar. Maggie’s eyes are huge as they venture deeper. Unlike Steve, she’s never been anywhere this fancy, never seen something so palatial. “Wow,” she whispers, slowing to a stop in the lounge area. She’s holding Steve’s hand, and for once she’s just staying put, too impressed to be rambunctious. She looks around a moment more before turning to Tony. “Are you really rich?”

Tony takes his sunglasses off and quirks a grin, immensely proud. “You could say that.”

Maggie doesn’t reply, looking around more. Steve lets go of her hand when she tentatively steps away. She climbs up on one of the white leather benches in the lounge area. Steve lurches forward. “Maggie, wait–”

“It’s alright,” Tony says, but Steve can’t help but wince as Maggie’s dirty sneakers touch the expensive leather. 

Maggie’s eyes get even bigger. She has a better vantage on the seat, and she looks out the huge windows to the bay. “You can see everything,” she marvels.

Tony comes closer again. “You think that’s cool? Check this out.”

She turns and stares at him. A few minutes ago maybe she would have run the second he offered something even remotely more interesting, but now she’s more hesitant. She glances at Steve, and Steve nods. Then she slips down off the leather seating area and follows Tony up the fancy steps to the cockpit. “Wow,” she whispers again the second they get up there. Her reaction is just like Steve’s from earlier. As amazing as the view is from the lounge/atrium area, from the cockpit it’s just astounding. You truly can see everything, with the huge, flawlessly clean windows that encircle the front of the ship. “This is awesome.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” Tony agrees from beside her. He’s probably seen it a thousand times – probably seen things far, far cooler – but he’s taking it in like it’s new with his hands on his hips and with interest. Steve watches from behind them, wary but interested himself. Not in the view of course but in _them_. He keeps wanting to think this is some kind of act or game, but he just can’t make himself believe it. “You want to see something even cooler, though?”

Maggie looks up at him, eyes still so wide. “There’s something _cooler_?”

Tony chuckles and nods to the captain’s chair. Maggie’s earlier trepidation just vanishes, and she’s running over. “How do you turn it on?” she asks as she climbs into the chair. She looks tiny in it, barely tall enough to look over the dash even on her knees in the seat. “Can we do that? Can we turn it on?”

“Sure,” Tony says, and he leans down over her, and this completely irrational jolt goes through Steve because all he’s doing is pressing the button to switch on the engine. The boat comes to life, the engines immediately humming in readiness. Tony looks up and around, listening to the sound. That alone has him convinced, and he smiles at Steve. “Job well done.”

Steve doesn’t spend a second basking in relief that his repairs are working. His reluctance comes thundering back. “Mr. Stark – _Tony_ – we don’t have to–”

“Wow!” Maggie gasps. She’s completely unabashed with her awe. She’s never seen anything like this, either. The dash comes to life with all these colors and screens, all this top notch tech, and it’s like Christmas morning to her.

Tony grins. “You like it?”

“Uh-huh,” she says softly. She points to one of the screens. “Is that radar?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the power?”

From his vantage, Steve can see the confusion work its way over Tony’s face. “Huh?”

Maggie looks up at him again. “The power. The transmitter’s on the top of the boat, right. Is the receiver up there, too? What’s its gain? And how strong is the transmitter?”

 _God, not again._ Steve rushes forward, not that what he thinks matters much. This is barreling forward like a runaway freight train. “Maggie, come on. Let’s get down and not bother Mr. Stark with–”

Too late. “You… know about radar?” Tony asks, brow crinkled in confusion.

“Uh-huh. Read about it in a book.”

“But you’re, like… small.”

She’s ignoring that, already onto the next thing. “Does the boat have sonar, too? And what’s this?” She points at another screen and looks up with Tony. Tony seems flabbergasted for a moment more, and Steve’s grimacing behind him. This plan he’s had to raise Maggie and hide this or at least play it down… He’s seeing more and more that that’s going to be impossible. _Today_ has fantastically demonstrated that. Stark looks about ready to flip out.

He doesn’t, though. He simply leans over her. “That’s the nav system.”

“Navigation?” Maggie asks, and Tony nods. She smiles. “Cool. How does that work?”

“Well, I can tell you, but maybe it’d be more exciting to see it in action.” Maggie’s eyes get big again. For a moment, Tony hesitates, like he can’t quite believe what he just offered. Or he doesn’t know how to give it. In either case, he stands there, uncertainty written all over his face and telegraphed in his body language. Steve doesn’t know what to do, if he should do anything at all. “Slide over there,” Tony finally says, and Maggie does, making room in the chair.

And Tony carefully sits down right next to her. He’s motionless for a second, again like he’s not sure what to do now that he’s gotten himself in this situation. His complete lack of experience with kids can’t be any more obvious. “Alright,” he finally says on a long breath. “First we have to see if your dad will untie us from the dock.”

Maggie frowns. “He’s not–”

“Yeah!” Steve interrupts. Even though the choice is pretty much him handling that or not going on this test drive at all, the idea of leaving Maggie behind with Tony is pretty horrifying. At this point, Steve’s not sure who he trusts less, since Maggie seems to be intent on breaking all their rules today. He steps forward and grasps her shoulder, saddling her with a silent, stern warning. She knows better than to _ever_ reveal the truth. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Tony doesn’t seem to notice his tension. “Cool beans. In the mean time, let me explain some stuff about working this thing.” He immediately starts talking about the control panel, all the screens and buttons and dials, and Steve watches for just a second to make sure Maggie’s okay with this (and keeping her mouth shut about stuff that’s not Stark’s business). She’s completely and utterly engrossed as Tony speaks, so involved that she’s not even paying attention to the fact Steve’s leaving.

So he goes. Anxiety prickles under his skin because this is a bad idea. His mind’s humming with that – _this is terrible you can’t leave her with a stranger what the hell are you thinking –_ as he rushes back down and out of the yacht. Thankfully he’s tied up enough boats in his life that he can be on autopilot as he gets the ropes securing it to the dock undone. _This is crazy! So stupid. Why did you let him stay? Why didn’t you drive him off? What’s the matter with you?_ He’s letting his own damn feelings get in the way of common sense, because like it or not, he _has_ feelings for this guy. And, liking another man aside, that seems totally _ridiculous_ because he doesn’t know Tony and Tony sure as hell knows nothing about him or Maggie and he’s made staying away from trouble his entire _life_ these last five years. _And you’re blowing it all today. What, screwing up by putting her into school wasn’t enough? You need to make it worse by letting this guy in?_

He can’t be this stupid. Or this selfish.

But apparently that’s what he is, because he finishes undoing the moorings, secures them as rapidly as he can (which is pretty sloppy, not that he cares), and jumps back onto the boat like Stark may take off without him and steal Maggie. Of course that doesn’t happen, but his heart is pounding like it’s real threat as he sprints back into the yacht’s interior. He takes the few stairs by leaps and bounds and bursts back into the cockpit to find Maggie and Tony still intently studying the control panel, Tony quietly explaining something. Their heads are nearly pressed together, Stark’s dark brown hair next to Maggie’s mussed, chestnut locks, and the image really takes Steve aback. It’s not just the fact that they are so close to one another. It’s the way they look. It’s the light in their eyes, the focus, that sharp, _sharp_ intelligence shining as they study something. Between the two of them, that light is the same.

Steve doesn’t know what to make of that.

He doesn’t really get a chance to ponder it. Tony turns in the captain’s chair. “Everything ready? And what’s up with you breathing like that? Did you use super speed or something?” There’s a wink there, like Tony knows exactly what Steve feared and how silly it was and is silently teasing him about it.

Steve’s not rising to the bait. “If we’re going, we should get moving.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Tony says in a jaunty tone. He turns to Maggie. “Although it’s my boat, so I guess technically I’m the captain. You can be my first-mate, Peg-Leg Peg.”

Steve jerks just a bit in surprise at the mention of Peggy’s name. _Peg._ He called her that a lot. Her parents hated the nickname, not that they permitted him to be around much to say it. This bolt of sudden sadness almost has him reeling, and he goes back to the same paranoid question. Stark can’t _know_ , can he?

Maggie giggles, not nearly so sad. “Peggy is my mom’s name,” she says, and there goes any chance of Tony not finding out. Again.

Tony turns to Steve, like he hasn’t considered that this child has to have a mother. Like the prospect of Steve being involved with someone else never occurred to that super power brain of his. Steve doesn’t know how to react in the slightest, so he stands there like a deer caught in headlights. When Tony realizes he’s not going to get the answers he wants from staring, he turns back to Maggie. “Is that so?” Maggie just nods, too entranced by the console. Steve says nothing, waiting for a barrage of questions that actually doesn’t come. “Okay then, Peg-Leg. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Maggie laughs more, and there’s another second Steve reconsiders calling this whole thing off, but he’s just glued to his spot as Tony starts powering up the yacht’s engines. They rumble to life, content and running perfectly. Tony stands at the wheel and grips the throttle. “Full speed ahead.”

A couple minutes later, they’re off. Tony keeps it at low power as they slip slowly away from the marina, but the second they’re further out into the bay, he pushes the throttle up and the yacht really starts to go. Steve’s never been on a ship this big; it’s shocking just how sleek and steady it is as it cuts through the water. The engines hum, the sound muffled by the ship’s size, but Steve can tell they’re working well without seeing the gauges. Tony’s not even checking them; he’s not worried at all. Maggie’s leaning up as tall as she can beside him to see over the console. “Here, Peg-Leg. Stand up.”

From behind the chair, Steve winces at the thought of Maggie’s dirty shoes now right on the expensive white leather. Maggie herself doesn’t think twice, getting to her feet so she can see. She beams at Tony at the sight of the yacht’s bow boldly and beautiful jutting out before them, starkly white and silver against the sapphire waters. “Where to?” Tony asks.

“Just around the bay is fine,” Steve immediately suggests. There’s a little sand bar not too far out. That’s where he typically takes Maggie when they go out, so she can splash in the waves and play in the sand, but there’s no way Tony’s going to be able to get a boat like this close enough with the water so shallow there. “It’s a test drive, right?”

Tony doesn’t look particularly pleased with how Steve’s defined this outing. “Okay, we can putter out a little further and then _really_ let her go.”

“Yay!” Maggie whoops. “Can we go up top?”

“Sure,” Tony says, and he lowers the throttle just a bit so they can maneuver a little easier.

Maggie hops down from the pilot’s chair, running over to Steve and grabbing his hand. “Come on!” She tugs him toward the steps that lead up to the upper deck. Steve stumbles after her, sharing a glance with Tony, but he looks unhappy, finally taking a moment instead to check the screens and readouts on the control console. The expression on his face is troubling when it really shouldn’t be, like he was hoping this _is_ actually some kind of date (or that he could turn it into that), and yet again Steve feels unreasonably bad.

There’s no time to dwell though, because Maggie is yanking him up the steps. “Easy,” Steve quietly admonishes. “Slow down.” She calms down only enough to obey him. Apparently her earlier scare with falling has been completely forgotten as she quickly goes as far as she can forward before she hits the railing at the end of the deck. There’s leather seating all around here, more of the same fancy stuff in addition to a small bar and some lounge chairs. She stands at the end on her very tip toes to see over. “Okay, yeah. How about we not do that.” Steve grabs a life jacket from one of the marked cabinets on the small deck and gets it on Maggie. She’s not helping much, and it’s a little too big, but he zips it and clasps it into place without too much trouble.

The yacht gently jumps forward. Steve stumbles just a bit with the increase in speed. Stark’s really letting it loose now. The vessel’s racing across the water, the liquid spraying as the boat slices through it. “It’s kinda like flying!” Maggie shouts.

Steve pushes up behind her, getting a hand on her life jacket and bracing her small body against his much larger one. He grips the railing, holding her in place and looking out over her shoulder. She’s right; it is like flying. And it’s exactly what he daydreamed earlier today. The bay is opening to the ocean, and it’s vast and endless and full of promise. _Freedom._ He holds her close, and for just a moment, he lets himself believe it’s real, that this is really their life, that they have this. The freedom to go anywhere and do anything and _be_ anything. “Yeah,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss into her wind-blown hair. “Yeah, it is.”

They fly for a bit longer. Tony turns out of the bay and speeds northward. The wind is warm, sweet, and the sun’s bright and pleasant. Steve falls into it. It’s not often that he lets himself do that, just empty his mind and his heart and enjoy something without thinking about something else or worrying about anything. There’s no choice here; the moment is so amazing that he just gets drawn into it, into holding Maggie against him and listening to her chatter in wonder at everything she’s seeing and hearing and feeling and experiencing. He’s basking in her joy more than anything and permitting himself the rarest, most perfect, and most impossible fantasy of all.

That she’s his.

“Look over there!” Maggie says, tugging on Steve’s hand, and he opens eyes he let slip shut. A speedboat is racing by them going the other way. Maggie turns and waves excitedly, and the people aboard the speedboat wave back. Normally that’d be the kind of boat they’d take out on a test ride, and she’d be waving to the rich people on their yachts. The reversal is crazy, but the glee in Maggie’s eyes is indescribable, and Steve can’t help the huge smile that graces his face.

“Why does Mr. Stark keep looking at you funny?”

That question snaps him right out of his happy haze. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“He looks at you a lot, and he’s got this funny expression on his face, like he wants to say something but doesn’t.”

Steve doesn’t answer for a moment, staring at the water which somehow doesn’t look so pretty and calm anymore. This is definitely one of those times where he wishes Maggie isn’t so perceptive. “He seems say whatever he wants all the time,” he deflects.

“I think he likes you.” That’s pretty blunt, and it has him looking down at her. She has this quizzical look on her face that would be adorable if not for the subject matter. “Is it okay for two guys to like each other?”

“Of course it is,” Steve says quickly, although again he’s never really thought about it much. At least in terms of himself. He’s found other men attractive in the past but it’s never amounted to _attraction_ before. _“Before”. Don’t think of it like that, like there was a before. Like he’s different from anyone else. And you’re not attracted to him. You’re not._

Maggie doesn’t know what he’s thinking obviously, which makes her response more poignant in a way. “Do you like him?” To that, Steve sighs. It’s stupid to even think about it, but like everything else recently, he can’t just make himself say no. So he says nothing at all, feeling pretty obvious all the same. Maggie watches him, this time so naively and innocently. “Maybe you should. Bucket says you need to get out more.”

 _Damn it, Bucky._ “That’s not really his business,” Steve says.

Maggie shrugs. “He says it is. He says you need to get a life.”

Again Steve’s grinding his teeth together. “I have a life. It’s you.”

“He says that doesn’t count.”

 _Lord._ “What do you two do?” he asks, a little exasperated. “Sit around his place all day and talk about me?”

To that Maggie gives another shrug. “Sometimes. He worries.”

Steve shakes his head. “What else is new,” he grumbles. Then he sighs. “I just fixed this guy’s boat, Mags. And you wanted a test drive, and he kindly offered. That’s it.”

She doesn’t buy that in the least. “Then how come you look at him funny, too?”

“I don’t…” He doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know.”

It’s quiet a moment save for the wind and the water striking the hull beneath them and the hum of the yacht. Maggie leans back into his chest. “He seems nice,” she finally says. “I like him.”

Steve grunts a bit of a surprised chuckle. “This your way of telling me you’re okay with me going for it? Whatever _it_ is.” Not that it matters. He’s not sure he wants there to be an _it._

But then Maggie looks up at him, nothing but aghast. “How should I know? I’m five.”

Now Steve laughs more freely. He squeezes her against him even more and kisses her head. “I know.”

Maggie goes back to watching the bay rushing beneath them as the yacht rushes up the coast. “But I know it’s better to try new things. You tell me that all the time.” He does. He’s been telling her that for days about starting school. “You say everything’s going to be okay, no matter what.”

He knows he’s said that, too. Promised it, in fact. _Everything’s okay. No matter what, things work out the way they’re meant to._ “Yeah,” he quietly agrees.

She looks up at him again. “You should smile more.”

That bothers him, that Maggie may get a glimpse of just how unsettled he is and has been for years. He’s never been very good at acting or hiding anything. Peggy used to be so amused at just how obvious he is, and Natasha never hesitates to tell him he’s a terrible liar. He doesn’t want Maggie to worry about him though or think that she’s a burden. He’s never wanted her to think that. “That something else Bucky’s been telling you?”

“No,” she simply states. “It’s just a fact.”

The boat begins to slow, and the waves get choppier against the hull as it does. Steve turns, looking down to where the cockpit is. He can’t see Stark at first. When the yacht’s at a stop, the other man appears at the bottom of the stairs. “Keep going?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Steve replies. “Everything’s working fine, right? So we’re done testing.” Maggie pulls away from him with a very loud, very whiny _aw._ Inwardly Steve grimaces; he really needs to firm up against that tactic of hers. Of course, it’s much harder now, with Tony looking as disappointed and despondent as Maggie sounds. He puts a hand on Maggie’s head. “It’s a school night. We need to get home. Do homework.”

“It’s the first day of school,” Maggie says in annoyance. “There is no homework. And I’m in _kindergarten._ ”

“And it’s not even five o’clock,” Tony adds. “That’s not night. Not in my world for sure, but I’m thinking not anywhere.” He smiles. “Come on. We can breeze up the coast a little further, find a place to have dinner… I’d have you back by seven?”

“Please?” Maggie begs, tugging on Steve’s arm. 

The longer this goes on, the harder it’s going to be to put a stop to it. He should never have let it get this far. “That’s really very kind of you, but we do have to get home.”

Tony’s face falls, once again like he was truly expecting that he could wrangle this outing into some kind of date. That makes Steve feel lousy all over again. Would it really be so bad? Shirk all his doubts and fears, all his worries and responsibilities, and just go and do something because he wants to? The last time he did something like that was with Peggy, back when he was younger and more naïve. Just thinking about that – and all the pain that came from those carefree moments – sours that sudden want rapidly. “No,” he declares more sternly. “We really have to get going.”

Stark looks devastated. That hurts even more, which it _shouldn’t._ It’s not Steve’s fault in the least that this guy built up some sort of expectation that’s completely unrealistic. They don’t know each other. Period. So what if this guy’s been flirting with him for basically twenty-four hours straight? So what if he called and called just like he wants to hear Steve’s voice, like the sun rises and sets on Steve’s answers to his questions? _So what_ if he came all the way down here just to find out if Steve’s willing to go out with him?

So what if Maggie likes him? Steve’s not looking to get involved with anyone. He _can’t_ get involved with anyone.

Incredibly handsome eccentric, playboy billionaires most of all.

At least Tony has the decency not to argue with him. The rejection in his eyes is still sharp, but to his credit, he moves on. “Okay. I’ll get us back.” He goes to move away from the bottom of the steps, but then he stops and comes back. “Hey, Peg-Leg. You wanna come steer the ship?”

That makes Maggie perk up almost immediately. “Really?”

“Sure.”

Maggie takes off to get back down the steps before Steve can stop her or even remind her to be careful. Steve follows, nearly whacking his head on the low clearance of the stairway as he goes down. Maggie is already clambering back toward the pilot’s chair. Tony watches her flounder for a moment and then decides to give her a boost to get her situated. He looks back at Steve right after he does that, like he’s sure Steve’s going to yell at him. Or that he’s _not_ sure he can touch her. Either way, he’s looking at Steve like he wants some sort of permission, and when Steve isn’t sure and therefore doesn’t respond, Tony just clears his throat.

Then he puts on the worst pirate drawl imaginable. “Arrr, me first mate Peg-Leg. Lost her leg in a great battle with a giant sea crocodile!”

Maggie giggles. “That’s Hook.”

“Oh.” Out comes the goofy voice again. “In a great battle with a giant sea alligator!” She laughs more. “But! She has a keen sense of direction and is the best there is behind the wheel.” At that Maggie just beams. “Avast, ye matey! Turn the sail and set course for the mainland!”

Maggie stands up on the seat, once more her dirty shoes marking up the leather. Tony doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. He stands beside her. “Grip the wheel and turn to the port side while you push up the throttle.”

“Which is the port side?” she asks, wrapping her one hand around the leather and polished wood. Her other goes to the throttle like it’s meant to be there, even if it looks so small.

“The left, ye blaggard! What proper sailor doesn’t know her port from her starboard?” She laughs more, turning the wheel sharply to the left as she powers the engines up. Steve nearly lurches forward to stop her. “Whoa, there, matey,” Tony calmly advises. He doesn’t push her away or take her hands off. Instead, with surprising patience, he guides her. “Small motions. We pirates may be portrayed as ruffians and hooligans, but we know the right way’s through little adjustments.”

Steve can’t help a small, surprised laugh. This guy, this richer than richer playboy… He’s actually really good with kids. And maybe he does have experience; what does Steve know? It sure seemed before like this is new to him. Still, as he stands there and shows Maggie how to drive this million-dollar yacht, Steve can’t help but feel like this is okay. He probably should be terrified at the liability implications; a five-year old should not be in charge of anything this expensive. What if she crashes this thing? What if she makes a mistake and damages it? What if Stark gets mad at her? What if none of this is what it seems?

But he’s not terrified. He’s not thinking about any of it. As he watches this stranger with Maggie, this knot of tension begins to unwind inside him, until he feels as loose and unbothered as the water beneath them. Tony shows Maggie what the gauges on the console mean, how to tell which direction they’re headed, how to watch for other traffic in the bay, how to power up the engines and slow them down, how to turn into waves. She’s completely engrossed all over again, hanging on every word he says. Steve watches, and he feels calm and right.

Because she’s flying again, only this is different and even more powerful. She looks so happy.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, they’re slowing down as they approach the marina. Tony still hasn’t taken control from her, instead guiding her in what needs to be done. She’s really gotten the hang of it now, anticipating his instructions before he’s even said them, which has Tony looking back at Steve again in confusion. Steve turns away, trying to hide a surge of nervousness inside that has nothing to do with Maggie’s poorly concealed intelligence. He goes to the rear of the boat as they boat closer, and when it’s close to the slip he jumps off. One of the other yacht owners for whom he’s done repairs in the past is around, and he comes to help Steve tie the yacht up to the dock after Tony maneuvers it in place.

Once everything is secure, Steve goes back to the cockpit and finds Maggie jabbering a mile a minute. “That was _so_ cool! We were going super fast, like the fastest boat ever, and did you see that wave I missed? I’m the best first mate ever!” Tony laughs, switching things off on the console. Maggie’s bouncing. “Can we do more? Can we?”

Tony glances at Steve, clearly hoping there’s a chance something will change. Steve manages a weak smile. “We really do have to go.”

Maggie whines again. Steve can see she’s getting tired, overstimulated from the early morning and all the activity and excitement, and if he doesn’t extract her now, he’ll be facing a meltdown. He may be anyway, because Tony looks about as unhappy as she does. He’s doing a marginally better job at hiding it. “School is overrated,” he declares. “Especially when you’re as smart as we are.” Steve stiffens again, even though he’s more sure than ever that Tony doesn’t really know anything about them. The other man misinterprets his reaction. “But you need it, right? We all need it. So we should call it a day.”

Maggie shakes her head. “I don’t like school. It’s boring. Can’t you be my teacher?”

Tony gives a surprised chuckle. “Don’t think that’s allowed?”

Her face falls. “Well, can you come back tomorrow?” She shrugs out of her lifejacket and then hands it to Steve. “ _He_ won’t ask you, so I have to.”

“Maggie,” Steve chastises, but she doesn’t apologize.

And Tony doesn’t say anything. He just appraises Steve with a bit of a smirk on his face. The sun’s low enough now that bright golden light is spilling into the luxurious cockpit, and smoothly he puts his sunglasses back on. It’s like that flirty and somewhat fake mask comes with them, and the open and vulnerable man who was there just a moment ago is gone. “Kid’s got a point.” Steve rolls his eyes a little, putting the lifejacket away in the interior storage cabinet. “I mean, I could come hang with her if you don’t want to join in.”

“Mr. Stark, come on.”

“Kidding! Kidding.”

But the offer has Maggie pouting and not in a fake or manipulative way. As he nudges and directs her out of the yacht, Steve has to wonder if her little talk before on the deck was less about him smiling more and more about her wanting something else in her life. He’s lying to himself if he says he’s never worried about her growing up with one parent (well, one parental figure). Sure, Bucky and Natasha are nearly permanent fixtures in her life, but she doesn’t live with them. They’re not part of her household. Steve’s felt bad about that, that it’s just him, that she doesn’t have a mother and he’s not good enough to be worth two parents. The funny thing is until now he’s always attributed that to his own insecurities. She’s never been interested in anyone like this before. He wants to think that’s only because Stark is obviously incredibly smart and has a ton of cool gadgets, and she’s smart and loves technology, and that Stark’s only interested in him because he’s a quick lay or something… But Steve knows more than ever that’s not true.

How many people looking for an easy hook-up would spend this much time, effort, and money getting it?

The three of them are silent as they leave the yacht. Steve wonders for a moment if he’s the only one wool-gathering, but he steals a glance or two at Tony as they quietly walk back to the main marina. The other man’s pensive as well, but he’s not looking at Steve. At least, not _just_ at Steve. He’s studying Maggie, too. For her own part, Maggie is putting on a show of ignoring them both. She’s angry, and she’s tired, and she’s not hiding either at all.

She’s not the only one who’s irate. The second they make it through the maze of docks and reach the main area, Thor’s there. His face is dark, and he looks stormy. “Mr. Stark, your car is in my parking spot.”

Tony stops. He stands on his tip toes to look down over Thor’s shoulder to where the lot is. Steve follows his gaze and sees an unbelievably nice-looking sports car by the marina building. Steve knows nothing about race cars, but he knows that’s not the same car Stark drove yesterday. It’s not exactly parked in Thor’s parking spot. There _aren’t_ parking spots; if there ever were lines on the worn down asphalt, they’ve long faded with the Floridian elements.

But Thor is obviously itching for a fight. His disdain for Tony from the morning has obviously grown throughout the day. Or something else has set him off. Thor burns hot and fast, and for how funny and compassionate he is, he’s not the best about handling his temper. “And you’ve taken up _way_ too much of our time. Steve hasn’t been able to work on anything aside from your boat for the past twenty-four hours.”

That’s not exactly true. Tony frowns, and before Steve can say anything, he’s defending himself. “I’m paying for him to do that.”

“You’re not paying him to entertain you.” That’s overly harsh, and Thor’s saying it to Tony, not to Steve, which is not fair, because if Thor should be mad at anyone, it should be him (though for what, Steve doesn’t know. They’re partners in a sense; Steve rents space from Thor, and they both pitch in on bills and supplies, but Thor’s not his boss, not really). Thor’s glaring at Tony while jabbing a finger toward Steve. “If he’s busy dealing with your crap, he’s not working on the _huge_ pile of jobs we have.”

Steve’s not sure how “huge” the pile is. They’re doing fine, but he’s got a feeling that’s said with emphasis to show Stark how much they don’t need his business. And all of this vitriol isn’t warranted. “Thor, easy. It’s alright. I needed to give Mr. Stark’s yacht a test, and I did that, and everything is good.” Thor’s eyes dart to Maggie where she’s between Steve and Tony. It’s clear he’s not pleased that she’s next to Tony or that Tony’s had anything to do with her. Steve sighs. “It’s fine. We’re all set.”

Whatever bug Thor has up his butt (and Steve’s betting it has more to do with Thor’s dislike of all wealthy people than anything else) keeps the argument going. “Once the account’s settled, you’re back to New York or Malibu or wherever the heck you’re from, right?”

Tony just stares at him. “I’m sorry. I thought I was the customer here. And if you’re in a tizzy because I wasted his time, I’ll compensate him _for his time._ Over-compensate him.” He tries for a smile, like he’s not sure if he should be confrontational or more amiable. “I already offered before, but I could really do some incredible things for you.”

Thor seems shocked, but that lasts for a blink before he’s affronted. Of course he would be. Steve’s dealt with Tony enough over the last day to realize he’s just like this, offering his resources left and right without a care for how other people may perceive it. “We don’t need your money. In fact, we don’t need anything from you.” Thor steps closer, and Tony actually retreats a bit. Stark’s not a terribly tall guy, and Thor positively towers over him. “So pay your damn bill and get out of our hair.”

Tony blanches, but then he frowns. “Dude, anyone ever tell you hobo isn’t the best of looks? And this place… Dump is probably a compliment.” Thor growls. “You could do with a makeover.”

Thor’s glower gets even colder. “Not from the likes of you.”

“The likes of me? What, a paying client? This how you treat everyone who comes in here with work for you to do? When I got here, I thought you’d be different from everyone else around here who turned me down.”

“That not enough of a sign for you that rich folks aren’t welcomed?” Steve winces at that. It’s not like that’s really a thing around here, this division between the wealthy and the working class (at least, not any more than anywhere else, he thinks). This is Thor projecting again. “People like you are always so dense.”

“Wow,” Tony says. “Harsh. I don’t know what I did to piss you off–”

“By coming here. We don’t need your money. We don’t need your business. And I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing but–”

“It’s alright!” Steve says, moving between the two men. The situation is ridiculous, escalating really fast for no reason at all, and Maggie’s right there watching and listening. At the very least he has to get her away. He sets his hands on Thor’s shoulders and gently but physically moves him back. “Why don’t you take Maggie to the back room, huh? Get a snack while I check Mr. Stark out.” He realizes what he said, and his cheeks absolutely burn. “Check out Mr. Stark.” That’s not better. He can practically imagine Tony smirking behind him, but he turns and glances, and the other man is surprisingly solemn. “I’m going to settle his bill, okay, and then he’ll be going.” Thor is glaring daggers around Steve’s head. “Okay?” Steve prompts again.

“Aye,” the big guy rumbles, and like that the tension recedes to a much more tolerable level. Thor’s still eyeing Tony like he’s public enemy number one, and Tony’s still holding his ground, but it seems less like the two are about to throw down. Thor holds out a huge hand to Maggie. “Come, little one.”

Maggie seems a little reluctant to leave Steve, but she acquiesces, going forward to take Thor’s hand. Steve hands Thor her backpack that he grabbed from Tony’s yacht before they left, and they head toward the shop. The large man looks down at the little girl. “I have Ho-hos and Yoo-hoo.”

“Ho-hos and Yoo-hoo?” Maggie says, and her quiet mood transforms into glee. Steve inwardly groans at the idea of that much sugar before dinner. “Yes!”

“Yes, indeed!” Thor says, and then he’s swinging her up. She looks so small in his arms, giggling madly as he tosses her over his shoulder and then bounces his way to the shop. He pauses right before going inside to glare one more time at Tony.

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. Once they’re out of sight, he sighs and takes a step toward their office. “Come on.”

“Not necessary.”

Steve turns to see Tony pulling his checkbook out of his suit. He’s got a pen, too, a nice one, and he’s scribbling into the book with an annoyed expression like he hasn’t had to write a check a while. “I think, Steve Rogers the Boat Mechanic, that you’ve answered my question.”

Steve shakes his head. “Huh?”

“You kept saying the answer, and I guess I didn’t want to hear it. But now I have, and I swore to you that I’d respect it, so…” He rips the check from the book and hands it to Steve. “Here.”

Head spinning in sudden confusion, Steve’s slow to take it. “I didn’t answer… I mean, I didn’t say…” He feels his forehead furrow as he looks down and reads the check. “Mr. Stark, this is way too much!”

“The fact that we’re back to Mr. Stark says everything, Mr. Rogers,” Tony says. He’s not angry per se, but the disappointment is sharp in his face even with his sunglasses on, and he seems like he’s trying to keep his voice free of it. “And the extra’s for your trouble. Put it to good use. No matter what your buddy says, this place needs an upgrade.” He looks around again like he’s making certain of that, but mostly it seems a distraction to keep from looking at Steve. “So do that. Or take that girl of yours somewhere special. A brain like that needs extra care and attention; trust me, I know better than anyone.”

Steve’s flummoxed, and something inside his chest just hurts. “I don’t understand.”

“No reason to play dumb,” Tony says. He offers a smile that just seems broken. “I can take a hint. After making a fool of myself apparently, but that’s fine.”

“No, no,” Steve says, and he thrusts the check back to Tony. “I am not taking this.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“ _No._ There’s no way in the world that the few hours I spent is worth–” He can’t finish. He can’t get over the fact that Tony Stark just wrote him a check for _twenty thousand dollars_. For a five hundred dollar repair job. He shakes his head more and more, horrified. “I can’t take this.”

“Tell yourself it’s for emotional distress.”

“You didn’t – you haven’t – no!”

“Then call it a bribe.” Tony’s smile is utterly self-deprecating. “For keeping this fiasco quiet. Not that you seem the type to blab to the tabloids. Pretty sure about that now.”

Steve’s stomach clenches, and his skin crawls. “I’d never–”

“Then it’s just a gift. You accept those, don’t you?” Steve’s mouth drops open, and Tony just keeps talking faster and faster. “It’s a gift. Because _I like you._ And I want to give it to you. So please take the money and do what you will with it and that’ll be that. It’s settled, and now I can go, so I’ll just go.” He takes Steve’s other hand and lifts it and shakes it vigorously. “Nice to meet you, Steve Rogers.” Then he turns on his heel just like that and starts towards his car.

Steve just stares. He’s utterly flabbergasted, heart throbbing, brain stalled. In the one hand, he has the check. The other is uselessly extended outward where Tony shook it. This is what he wanted, right? What’s for the best? Tony Stark is leaving his life just as suddenly and enigmatically as he came into it. Now everything can go back to normal.

Yet the heat of the other man’s hand lingers on Steve’s fingers. The feel of his calluses. Tony’s a rich man, sure, but he doesn’t have pampered hands. And he’s a rich man, sure, but he truly is generous. And kind. And so damn smart. And arrogant. And a bit of an asshole, but not in a way that hurts or is demeaning or condescending. And handsome and strange and wild and vulnerable and…

And Maggie likes him.

Who the hell is he kidding? He likes him, too. He _likes_ him.

So he runs. “Wait! Wait!” Tony’s to his car by the time Steve catches up to him, and he’s got the driver’s door open. Steve is breathing a bit heavily, and his heart is hammering, and that’s not really from the sprint. “You _really_ talk too much,” he says, “but if you shut up for one damn second, maybe you could hear my _actual_ answer.”

Tony’s eyes are unreadable again behind his sunglasses. He stares, and Steve feels all his certainty threaten to fizzle under that intense gaze. _No. Go forward._ He takes a deep breath and finally says, “Yes.”

The other man’s motionless as if he doesn’t know what to make of that. “Yes?”

Of course he’ll make Steve say it all. “Yes, I will go out with you.” The smile that slowly spreads over Tony’s face is bright, beautiful. Intoxicating. Steve swallows through a dry throat, trying not to sink into euphoria that _he_ caused that. “But there have to be some rules.”

For a second, Tony is utterly speechless. “Uh… Yeah, okay. What?” Steve takes a deep breath. Before he can speak though, Tony’s interrupting again. “Before you say anything – and not that I don’t want to hear it – but before you say anything, I need to ask you something.”

Steve exhales that breath and deflates. “Yeah?”

“You’re not involved with anyone, are you?”

That’s such a weird thing to be questioning at this point. “You’re asking me this now?”

Tony shrugs. He looks a bit ashamed. “Well, to be honest, despite all my bullshit, I really didn’t think you’d say yes.” Steve’s not sure why, but that stings a little. “But I figured if you really wanted me to lay off, you would have told me the truth if you are. You know, if you’re with someone. Or lied if you’re not. Then again, you could’ve told me about the offspring, and you didn’t do that either. You also seem like way too decent a guy to ever cheat on someone. And no ring.” Tony nods to Steve’s left hand, which Steve lifts. He rubs at his naked ring finger nervously and then stops himself. “So… yeah. Margaret Rogers Senior not in the picture?”

The question hurts, but Steve ignores the pain before it gets louder. It’s almost automatic, how any mention of Peggy brings it all back. He has to stop with that if he’s ever going to move on. And that’s what this is about. “No, I’m not seeing anyone. And I’m not married.”

Tony grins, and all the tension leaves him. The excitement is back. “Yay. I’m not, either. Dating or married.” Then he grimaces. “Not that I would cheat on anyone! I’m not like that anymore. That playboy crap? It really is behind me.” He winces harder. “Shit. I’m screwing this up again. Why do I suck so much at talking to you?”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, trying not to doubt, either.

Tony falters in the awkward beat that follows, but he grins. “So rules. Go.”

Again Steve takes a deep breath. He gathers himself, trying to get his thoughts back in order. “Okay, so there are three.”

“Got it.”

“First, I’ve, uh… I’ve never done this before. With a guy.” He feels his cheeks burn at admitting that. Tony just smiles. “So I have no idea what I’m doing. If that’s a problem, I want to know now.”

“Not unless it’s a problem for you,” Tony replies.

“I’m… not sure what it is, to be frank. I’ve never thought about this until now. You’re the first man’s ever, uh…”

“Made a pass at you?”

His blush is probably as a red as a tomato at this point. He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Tony’s grin gets a little sly, not in a predatory way, but definitely hungry. “It’s fine with me. If you find out this isn’t something you like, we can end it just like that, okay? It’s a date, nothing more.”

“And that’s rule two,” Steve manages. He clear his throat. “I don’t want to rush into anything. No commitments. Nothing really serious. And definitely nothing in the bedroom. Okay?”

It takes another beat, but Tony manages to school his face into something more controlled. “Absolutely.”

Once more Steve lets out a long breath, relieved. “And the last thing… If we do this? We do it on equal footing.” He takes Tony’s hand and pushes the check back into it. “I don’t want you paying for everything or buying me a bunch of stuff or trying to _woo_ me or whatever with your money. I don’t like that. You’re not paying me to go out with you or be with you or do anything else, okay? _Equal_ footing.”

Tony stares at the slightly crumpled check with a bit of a frown. “I can’t buy you anything?” he asks quietly after a moment. “Not _anything?_ ”

Steve stays firm. “Tony.”

“Yeah, okay.” He says that like refraining from spending a ton of money is an actual chore. “That it?”

Steve honestly considers that a moment, because it’s obvious Tony is _honestly_ asking him. “One more thing.” He looks Tony right in the eye. “She comes first.” He’s never been more sure of anything than he is of that.

And Tony seems to respect it. “Yeah, I figured. That’s why I’m suggesting we go out Friday night. I have to go to Washington DC for a couple days, but I can be back here by then. And it’s not a school night, right?”

“Uh… no?”

“So Friday then. At six?”

This seems like it’s happening so fast. “Sure? I think?”

Tony grins toothily. “Friday at six. I’ll pick you up and bring the payment for the boat. Which can stay here for now, right?” Steve opens his mouth, but he gets interrupted again. “Cool, thanks. And don’t worry; I’ll find your place. I have my ways.” Then Tony’s coming around the car door and taking Steve’s left hand. He lifts it, standing so close Steve can smell his cologne. His own bewildered face is reflected back at him in Tony’s sunglasses as the other man smiles that alluring, Cheshire-cat grin, as he lifts Steve’s hand and very carefully kisses his knuckles. He does it slowly, almost sensuously, and he’s studying Steve the whole time he does it. Steve’s mouth goes dry. His heart stops. He can’t move or think.

He just takes the moment.

Tony’s voice is almost a purr against his skin. “It’s a date then.”

A breath later, the other man’s getting into his car. The engine roars to life, jolting Steve from an overwhelmed stupor. Tony rolls down the window and smiles broadly. “Can’t wait. Tell Peg-Leg I’m coming?”

With that, the billionaire pulls out of the lot and races down the street, leaving Steve standing there, still feeling the heat of his hand and the rough scratch of those calluses and now the soft brush of his lips.


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the week crawls by. Despite the rocky start, school proceeds without too much trouble. There aren’t any further calls or issues, at least none that Steve knows about. That’s an entirely different source of worry, he realizes as the next days pass. He doesn’t _know_ what’s going on at school. He’s relying on feedback from a five year-old who still seems pretty miffed to have to go to school in the first place. Every day, Maggie, who’s usually such an incessant and excited chatter-box, has the minimal amount of information in response to his questions. How was her day? _“Fine.”_ Who did she play with? Talk to? _“No one.”_ What did she learn? _“Nothing.”_ Eight hours of nothing and no one, it seems. It’s really not like her to be so secretive and guarded, but Steve doesn’t want to push and risk damaging whatever truce she’s made with school and the fact she has to go. She seems okay enough about it, and they haven’t kicked her out yet or, worse, figured out the truth (though with how much of a dick Principal Pierce seems to be, Steve wonders if it’s only a matter of time). He knows he should cut his losses and be contented that things appear okay. Bucky tells him not to worry, and that if her teacher or the principal aren’t calling, it’s great. No news is good news.

Yeah, that sits well with his anxiety.

Regardless, things go alright, although to be honest Steve feels like he’s walking on eggshells the rest of the week. And he constantly wonders if there’s some sort of impending doom, a disaster looming on the horizon or some such. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. All he does is worry. When he’s not concerned about Maggie, he’s low-key obsessing about _the date_. That’s how he’s been referring to it to himself. _The date,_ this huge, monumental thing that’s fast approaching. There’s no denying the truth, and that is he’s absolutely terrified of what he’s done. More than once he considers calling Stark and canceling. More than considers, actually. He’s gone so far as to get out his old cell phone and punch in the number from Tony’s business card and nearly – very nearly – press SEND. He knows he should. What the hell was he thinking, accepting Stark’s advances? He _can’t_ date this guy. There are a ton of things wrong with the idea, more and more whenever he spends a second thinking about it (and he spends _all his time_ thinking about it), and so very few things that are right. Nothing about it feels sensible or smart, two things he knows he has to be. Going out with Tony? Indulging whatever curiosity he has (and whatever obsession Stark has with him)? That’s just plain selfish.

Of course, Bucky hasn’t seen it that way. Both he and Natasha have been off the walls excited since he told them the day after the fateful encounter, Bucky especially. He didn’t blink an eye about Stark being another man or Stark being wealthy and as far from out of Steve’s league as one can possibly get (although to be fair, Steve didn’t mention exactly who his date was. He just used his first name and described him as a wealthy client, because, again, he _knows_ this is wrong and stupid beyond belief). Bucky’s just absolutely thrilled Steve is doing something for himself, trying to have some sort of social life, _going out_ and enjoying something. Connecting with someone beyond their little family, someone who’s new and exciting and interested in him. He and Natasha immediately offered to take Maggie Friday night (Steve hasn’t told Maggie either, not that he’s going out or that Tony is coming back. That ties back into wanting to cancel the date. The second he tells her, he’s committed). On top of that, Bucky took Steve to get a new outfit Thursday, insisting he absolutely _cannot_ wear his old, dirty, torn work clothes. Aside from one suit hanging unused in his closet since Peggy’s funeral, Steve doesn’t have much else that’s decent. Bucky claimed right away the suit was way too stuffy (and loaded with symbolism Steve doesn’t need right now to boot), so off they went to find something more suitable.

Which Steve’s putting on now. Bucky and Maggie are on his bed, and he’s tossing her over his shoulder and generally rough-housing, and Steve’s standing in the one bathroom, trying to figure out if he likes this or not ( _not at all –_ this is terrifying). He sighs, shaking his head, struggling to focus but all he can hear are the two of them and all he can feel are his damn nerves ringing in misery. Maggie’s laughing and Bucky’s teasing her, and Steve just wants to run and hide. He bites his lip. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he mutters.

“Let me see,” Bucky calls.

Steve grimaces and turns. He steps back into the bedroom, and his audience stops goofing around for a second to appraise him. Maggie’s sprawled over Bucky’s lap, squirming like a worm until she spots him. “You look… weird.”

That’s the opinion of a five-year old who’s very used to her world being one way and one way only, so Steve knows he shouldn’t take it seriously. He can’t help it, though, wincing more as he flattens his blue button-down shirt to his chest and stomach. After living in ratty t-shirts for so long, it feels weird to have a nicer fabric against his skin. And the nice slacks and belt. And the dress socks. And the new shoes. He hasn’t bought himself anything like this in a very long time, maybe never when he really thinks about it. The outfit totaled more than he’s spent on clothes – on his _own_ clothes at least – in months, and it feels very wrong, very much not like him. Just as Maggie said: very weird.

Bucky’s quick to intercede though. “Nah. It looks good, Steve. You look hot.”

Steve turns back to the bathroom so that he can see himself in the mirror again. He trimmed his beard, cleaned it up in a way he hasn’t much recently, and actually styled his hair with gel (at Natasha’s insistence – it’s not much of a change, but he notices). She also suggested cologne, but that’s not him, either. He sighs. “I don’t think hot is a good thing here, Buck.”

“Why not?” Bucky asks. He pushes Maggie off him and comes to stand next to Steve. “He asked you, right. So you already know he’s interested.” Steve’s still not sure about that, not the reason or what sort of door he’s opening by agreeing to this. It goes without saying that he hasn’t told Bucky about Tony’s dogged persistence in getting this date. What Bucky says next doesn’t do a thing to make him feel better. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with just, you know, having some fun.” He leans close, a sly grin all over his face. “You know, a roll in the hay would do you some good. However that goes down between two dudes.”

“Damn it, Bucky,” Steve hisses, glancing back at Maggie.

Of course she heard them. “What’s a roll in the hay?”

“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, feeling his cheeks burn. He glares at his best friend, who’s trying hard not to laugh and so damn smug about it. “ _Nothing._ There’s not going to be _anything_ like that.”

Bucky goes back to Maggie and hauls her one-armed over his shoulder. She squeals and laughs. “C’mon, Steve. Would it be so terrible if it did? You know, there’s nothing to worry about here. We got this stuff under control, right, cupcake? Pile-driver!”

Maggie’s too busy laughing to answer as Bucky tosses her onto Steve’s bed and then fakes driving his elbow into her in some kind of over-the-top wrestling move. He makes a mess of Steve’s already messy bedding, rough-housing like no one else, and Maggie’s giggling so hard her face is red.

Steve bites his lip and shakes his head. “What if he asks things?” That’s been bothering him for _days_. He didn’t consider it when he agreed to go out, and now… “What do I do about that?”

“Lie,” Bucky answers simply, smooshing Maggie into the pillows. She socks him in the belly, and he acts like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Then she throws herself on him, practically jumping up and down on his back. “Make stuff up! You’ve done it lots of times.”

Something tells Steve it’s not going to be that easy. “People are supposed to talk on dates, aren’t they? Not that I know. God, I’ve never even _done_ this, Buck. Peggy and I…” They never dated, at least not in the traditional sense. Their romance was very whirlwind, very love-at-first-sight and fast. Plus he was in the service when they met, so it wasn’t like he had the opportunity to do go out and have dinner willy-nilly. _Plus_ the added complication of her family and all the sneaking around they had to do.

Plus he was younger back then. More certain of himself. Surer of the goodness and decency of people. He’s not that naïve kid anymore. “I’m going to screw this up,” he huffs. He goes back into the bedroom. “I don’t look – I’m not… I–”

“Here!” Maggie abandons the wrestling match and hops down from the bed, and for the first time in days, she’s really smiling at Steve. The silent treatment has all been a part of this vendetta she has, this grudge she’s been carrying since that first day at school (or since he ended their afternoon with Tony, about which she’s pouted constantly). Now she’s offering him one of his two ties with those big, gorgeous brown eyes of hers – Peggy’s eyes – and a huge smile on her face. “I like this one!”

“Nope! No tie,” Bucky says, rolling gracelessly to an upright position. He tries to snatch it from Maggie, but she dodges and gives it to Steve. It’s a gray one, silvery, and it does match the outfit pretty well. Bucky sighs. “A tie is too serious. Too professional. This guy is a client, right? You don’t want him thinking this is some kind of business arrangement.”

That’s about the worst turn of phrase ever. Not that Bucky knows that, since he doesn’t know Steve’s about to go out to dinner with a _billionaire_. And hiding that has been and now really is _completely_ crazy, because Steve highly doubts he’ll be able continue this lie of omission when Tony shows up. What are the chances he’ll drop by in a normal car? Does he even _own_ a normal car?

It’s too late to think about that now. Tony’s going to be here in just a few minutes. It’s Friday, and it’s almost six o’clock, and any chance of calling this off has long passed. Steve’s wasted these days, let them go without acting, without ever making that call to cancel that he’s hemmed and hawed about so many times, so now he’s well and truly committed. And Maggie grabs at him impatiently, so he takes the tie, Maggie beaming at him all the while. He puts it around his neck. He hasn’t tied one in so long, forever practically, but it should be like riding a bike, right? He fumbles and fails and decides pretty quickly that it’s not. His hands are shaking like crazy, and this is just pathetic, and _he can’t do it._

There’s another sigh from over by the bed, and Bucky’s suddenly in front of him, batting his hands away. “Let me, you idiot,” he says, and he uses his one hand quite capably to get the process started. Steve tries to look down, but Bucky pushes his head back up by the chin. Silk is whipping around his neck rapidly and wildly, but sure enough after a few seconds there’s a half-Windsor knot in the tie. Bucky chuckles at Steve’s flummoxed expression. “You know you’re in trouble when even the one-handed guy can do it better.”

“This is crazy,” Steve whispers. He shakes his head more. That feels like the only thing he’s capable of doing, the only thing he’s _been_ doing. “What the hell am I doing?”

“A good thing,” Bucky answers. “Something really normal and good for you.” He steps back and appraises him more. Maggie jumps up on the bed and stares too, putting her hands on her hips like Bucky’s doing. “Okay, the tie’s alright. Good call, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Bucket!” Maggie launches herself at him again, landing on his back. Bucky’s so strong that he twists and gets his good hand on her, hauling her around him and once more throwing them both onto Steve’s mussed bed.

Normally Steve would join in on the hijinks (or act long-suffering and pry them apart), but he sees car lights beneath the shades of his bedroom window and somehow, like he has some crazy six sense attuned to Tony (which he can’t, both because it’s stupid and because Tony surprised the hell out of him just a few days ago), he just knows. He leans over the bed, probably getting wrinkles in his clothes, and peaks out from behind the old blinds. Sure enough, another expensive car – probably the _most_ expensive car to ever drive into the Seaside Manor apartments – pulls into the lot next to their apartment unit. It’s sleek and silver and fancy. Steve doesn’t know the make, but it doesn’t really matter. It has to be Tony. “Damn it,” he whispers

“Language,” Maggie gasps, and then she’s climbing off Bucky and clambering over to the window, grabbing Steve’s arm. Her entire face lights up when she sees the car. “Whoa!”

Bucky follows her, pressing close to the two of them and peering out the window. Steve glances at him, and even anticipating his reaction, actually seeing it makes his blood run cold. Bucky’s eyes go wide, and his face becomes lax, and his mouth simply drops. Steve’s never seen him so surprised, not even in their many years as friends. It’s as if his brain has utterly short-circuited. “Holy _shit_.”

“ _Language_ , Bucket!” Maggie shouts, and then she’s scrambling away and jumping off the bed, running to the door.

“That’s… That’s… It’s…” Bucky still looks totally flummoxed, watching as Tony gets out of the sports car, adjusts his jacket, frowns as he checks the place out, and then heads their way. Steve tries to escape, because he’s a coward. It’s too late now to turn back now, right, so whatever grief Bucky is going to give him for this is kind of irrelevant.

Bucky doesn’t let him. “That’s Tony Stark!” he finally hisses. “This Tony you’re going out with is _Tony Stark?_ ”

“Who?” Steve says, trying to play dumb.

“Oh, _bullshit_ , Rogers!” Bucky groans. “What… I mean, how…” He sputters, shaking his head. “Why the hell didn’t you say something?”

Steve stammers. “What does it matter?”

“It matters!” Steve shakes his head and pulls his arm free, heading after Maggie. “Forget everything I just said! You can’t do this! Didn’t you just tell me that you can’t take risks?”

 _It’s too late._ Maggie’s already at the door and pulling it open and sprinting outside. Steve can see Tony coming up the walk, dressed impeccably and looking suave and charming and incredibly handsome. He grins, revealing those perfectly white teeth, as he sees Maggie. “Peg-Leg!” he greets, throwing out his arms.

“She _knows_ him?” Bucky hisses, and Steve’s pulling away and heading out the door.

Maggie reaches Tony, throwing herself unabashedly at his legs. “You came back!”

“Uh-huh,” Tony replies. “Had a hard time leaving actually. Without me first mate and all.”

Maggie grins a huge grin. Then it slips a little. “Wait… how’d you know where we live?”

“Clearly I know everything,” Tony replies, and he strolls right up to the apartment. For a second Steve irrationally considers just running back into the bedroom and hiding; Bucky flipping out solidifies everything he already knows is wrong with this. And now there really is no escape, because Tony spots him through the open door. For a second, they just watch each other. Maggie’s bouncing at Tony’s side and babbling in excitement and sheer joy, and Bucky’s right next to Steve, caught between gawking and glaring, and Steve just stands there. It didn’t bother him much before, but now he notices _everything_ wrong. Like the fact that Tony looks like a million bucks in yet another suit (this one charcoal gray with no tie – of course no tie) that’s definitely _not_ from Men’s Wearhouse and Steve’s dressed in an outfit that _very much_ came from Men’s Wearhouse. And Tony’s hair is perfectly coiffed, mussed in that easy, purposeful way, and Tony’s got those expensive sunglasses on and his fancy loafers and he’s walking closer with so much confidence…

At least until Tony really takes in more of where Steve lives. Maybe it didn’t occur to him that Steve’s not just not wealthy but less than average, poor really, living in a rundown apartment complex with an ancient truck and old furniture and basically nothing to his name. Steve can practically see the emotions flash across his face – disgust and surprise and pity – and it’s brutal. He’s been judged and found wanting plenty times before, but it never gets any easier. Tony hasn’t said a thing, appraising the apartment from the outside, and Steve can already hear him finding a way to back out of this insanity. _It’d be for the best._ The few seconds of silence that follow are unbearable, infinite, leading to inevitability, and that’s all Steve can think. _It’s for the best. He can do what you couldn’t._

But Tony doesn’t dump him before their date even begins. That surprise or disgust or pity or whatever disappears, and out comes a Cheshire-cat grin. “Hey,” he says, and it’s obvious he wants to say something else but he’s not going to. Instead he looks Steve over, and the pinched expression fades into appreciation that’s very clearly genuine. “Wow. You look great.”

Steve can’t help the heat burning his cheeks. “Um, thanks. So do you.” And Tony does. Not that there’d be any doubt about that. Steve feels himself staring again, his stomach twisted in knots as it flips in a mixture of excitement and complete appreciation for how, well, _hot_ this crazy, enigmatic guy is.

Then he feels Bucky like a solid wall of brick behind him. He turns to him. “Hey, uh… This is my friend, James.”

“Bucket,” Maggie supplies conspiratorially in a whisper, tugging Tony’s hand.

Bucky is not amused, not that Tony’s here and especially not that Maggie’s with him. “You’re Tony Stark,” he says, his tone very much guarded. “ _The_ Tony Stark. _”_

Tony sticks out his hand. “The one and only.”

All the good cheer and enthusiasm and _happiness_ Bucky’s had for this just dies. He’s got this expression on his bearded face, jaw clenched and gray eyes narrowed, and Steve recognizes the look well enough. It’s the same one Bucky always had when they were kids whenever _anyone_ picked on Steve. Steve never liked it much back then, and he’s really sure he doesn’t like it now. “The one and only Tony Stark who flipped off Congress a few months back during a deposition. The same one who was dating two super models at the same time at the Oscars in February. The same one who was in the papers last year for throwing a party at the Bellagio that cost _twelve million dollars_ because an entire floor of the hotel had to be remodeled after the damage.” Bucky practically spat that last thing. “That Tony Stark.”

God, Steve hasn’t heard about any of that. Tony’s smile falters a little. “That’s me.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No offense—” His tone clearly indicates the opposite. “–but what the hell are you doing _here_?”

“None taken, and taking your buddy out to dinner,” Tony answers decisively. He turns to Steve. “You ready to go?”

“What?” Maggie gasps, shaking her head. “You’re going right away?”

Tony looks down at her. “Your dad didn’t tell you?” Maggie shakes her head, looking so crushed that obviously she doesn’t think to correct him ( _thank God_ ). Tony seems a bit flustered and confused, glancing at Steve and then turning to Maggie again. “We’re going on a date.”

“But I thought…” She doesn’t finish, and that crushed expression turns to utter devastation. Tony grimaces, shaking his head helplessly.

And Steve can’t stand it. He finally manages to gather himself enough to actually not be a spastic lump of uselessness, putting his hand on Maggie’s head and pulling her closer. “I’m sure Tony can spend some time with you later on.”

She pouts harder, tucking her face into Steve’s leg, and Steve can’t help but wonder if she’s actually crying. He feels terrible; he knew she’d be excited about Tony coming back. That’s part of the reason he didn’t tell her about it until a little while ago. And she has basically no concept about what a date is; he’s hardly even been out at night, let alone out with someone else, since she was born. She’s never been a kid with a whole lot of separation anxiety, but Steve has a feeling tonight may be the night she starts.

“Hey, hey,” Tony suddenly says, coming closer. He crouches at her side. “Hey, Magpie. Magpie! You know what a Magpie is, right?” Against Steve’s leg, Maggie shakes her head. “It’s just about the smartest bird there is. And smart birds deserve presents for being so smart.”

She peeks out from behind Steve’s leg. “You got me a present?”

“Indeed I did. Just a sec.” And just like that, Tony’s sprinting back to his car. Bucky comes closer to stand at Steve’s side, looking incredibly suspicious and still rather horrified, and Steve can’t bear to give him more than a glance.

Tony comes right back, and sure enough, he has a gift bag, a pink one complete with white tissue paper and a really nice white bow. Steve is too shocked to even process what’s happening as he hands it to Maggie. Maggie takes it – she so rarely gets presents outside of Christmas and her birthday, let alone ones wrapped this nicely – and immediately tears into the tissue paper. Tony is absolutely beaming, and Steve’s just horrified as she pulls out a sleek, white box. “Whoa!”

“What is it?” Bucky asks, shaking his head.

“That,” Tony says, crouching in front of Maggie anew as she checks out the box, “is next year’s top of the line StarkPad. Not in stores yet, but I convinced R&D to get me a prototype, just for you.” Maggie’s eyes are just huge as she looks over the pictures on the front of the box for the tablet computer. _A tablet computer._ Steve has a laptop that’s about six years old, one that barely runs Google and YouTube, and that’s about the extent of their apartment’s technical capabilities. Something like this? It had to cost hundreds, but more likely _thousands,_ of dollars.

And Tony’s just handing it out like candy to this technically-savvy five year-old. “Cool, huh? It’s already charged and pre-loaded with some stuff I thought you might like. That Bucket guy can help you get it out of the box and set up. Assuming this place has wifi. It’s not that bad, is it?”

Bucky glares. “We have wifi.”

“Nice. A feature.” Tony grins, and Bucky is practically snarling, and Steve wants to dig himself a grave and bury himself in it. Tony turns back to Maggie. “When I get back, I can show you how to do some awesome stuff with it. Cool?"

Maggie grins, nodding emphatically. She throws her arms around Tony, and Tony jerks a little in surprise before awkwardly patting her back. “Okay, off. You’re messing up my shirt.”

She lets go of him and takes the bag and the box and runs back to the apartment. “Mags, you can’t take that!” Steve shouts after her once his brain kicks back into gear. He’s just astounded, shaking his head. “You just can’t–”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Tony dismissively declares. “Makes her happy.” Steve turns back to him, equal parts affronted that he’s manipulating Maggie (and him) like this and touched that he thought to bring something for her, something to make this easier like he anticipated she wouldn’t be okay with being left behind.

She’s okay with it now. “Maggie!” Steve calls after her again, his tone sharper.

Maggie stops in her sprint back into their apartment, looking over her shoulder in exasperation. “Bye! Love you!” she shouts, and then she’s tearing into their home like a kid at Christmas.

Bucky shakes his head. “This isn’t right,” he sputters in a mixture of disgust and shock. “You can’t just waltz in here and–”

“And take Steve here out for a really nice evening? Because that’s what I have planned, and I’d like to get going if it’s not too much to ask.” Tony puts his hands in his pockets and grins again. It’s downright dazzling. Steve can see Tony wink behind the sunglasses. “So shall we?”

Flustered is a very unusual look on Bucky. It’s more than obvious he doesn’t want Steve to go, but it’s _way_ too late to back out now, even more impossible than before. And Steve still _knows_ he should, and he’s mad enough to think that Tony maybe even deserves it for being so flippant and deciding unilaterally to give Maggie a gift of that magnitude without even asking. But he doesn’t call it off. No, he turns to Bucky and takes a deep breath. “You okay, Buck?” It’s asking for permission, and it’s not even very subtle about it. Steve’s not sure what he’ll do if Bucky doesn’t agree, if he keeps up with this pretty blatant disapproval.

Thankfully, Bucky doesn’t. He seems to realize this isn’t the time or place. He’s not pleased, no, but he’s alright enough. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine. Nat and I will bring her back to our place, so no need to rush back.” He says that sternly, kind of coldly, like he knows that’s what he’s supposed to say but there’s no joking affection like there was before. He just frowns, shaking his head in clear worry, and follows Maggie into the apartment. “Grab your stuff, cupcake. We’re doing a sleep-over.” He shuts the door behind them.

Steve just stands there, grimacing. More than ever, he thinks he’s making a mistake.

But then Tony calls to him. “You coming?” He’s already started walking to the car, and he grins again, so wide and charming. Steve nods and follows along.

* * *

They get about ten minutes from Seaside Manor before Steve feels brave enough to think about telling Tony off. Of course, riding along in this car – _holy shit_ – is an incredible experience. It’s totally different from being in the yacht yet somehow so much the same, all this speed and luxury encompassing him. The car has a black leather interior, again so much nicer than he has any right to sit in, and enough bells and whistles that his head’s spinning just looking at it. The engine is rumbling in way he’s never heard, brimming with power, just _aching_ to be let loose, and Steve can almost picture that, Tony speeding along these coastal roads, loose and free with a smile on his face and power just thrumming through him and the car both. It’s kind of intoxicating to think about.

But Tony is driving with a surprising amount of restraint. In fact, Steve thinks Tony’s exercising a lot of restraint period. It’s pretty obvious he wants to say something. Frankly, Steve wants to say a lot of things. The silence between them is crackling in tension, and if this is a precursor for how their date is going to go, this ill-fated, impossible _nonsense_ they’ve got going, Steve would like to stop this crazy train, right here and right now, and get off.

He doesn’t, though, and he doesn’t tell him off. He doesn’t say anything at all. The silence drags on and on until it’s getting really uncomfortable. Fortunately, Tony finally brings himself to talk. “So I guess I’m oh-for-two on winning your friends’ approval. Between the Big Lebowski from yesterday and Bucket from today–”

“I’m sorry about that,” Steve says, and he cringes and turns to the window. So much for saying something stern. “I really am. Bucky’s been my best friend since forever, and he’s a little over-protective.”

Tony shifts the car to a higher gear as the road opens up more, glancing at Steve. “I take it you didn’t tell him about me, because he looked pretty horrified. Like someone crapped on his car or something.” That’s just gross. Steve grimaces harder and stares out the window. He hardly notices what they’re passing or where they’re going. “You know, you don’t have to lay it on so thick. I get it. All rich people are assholes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, you guys have done a pretty good job heavily implying it.” That makes Steve feel worse, because it’s true. To be fair, Tony’s done nothing to warrant the cold shoulder treatment both Thor and Bucky gave him. And all the other boat mechanics he tried before ending up at their marina. And Steve himself. “Your friend yesterday _did_ say it, I think. And you know what? It’s cool. I really do get it. I’ve done a lot of bad stuff, recently even. I drank and partied and blew off important shit and used people and basically lived that rich asshole stereotype. So all that crap he just rattled off back there? Not gonna lie. It’s all true.”

Steve turns to him, and Tony’s expression is just sort of blank. Resigned to it. He sighs and grips the leather-bound steering wheel a little tighter. “But stuff has happened to me recently that has made me want to change. I’m trying to step up more, be a better person, take better care of myself and the people who depend on me. Do the right thing instead of the easy thing or the chickenshit thing. My bad reputation is not going to be fixed overnight, and I appreciate that, but I’d also appreciate a chance to screw up before being blamed for it.”

That really tempers Steve’s disquiet. It’s such an open and unguarded thing for Tony to say, and there’s no doubt in his mind that it’s true. There’s also no doubt that he wants to know more. He wants to understand. He’s not sure what “stuff” has happened recently, but whatever it is, it’s probably linked to why Tony’s down here in Florida to begin with on a yacht that’s way too big for one guy that had a mechanical problem he could have easily fixed himself. He wants to dismiss that as simple curiosity, but he’s no more certain that it is today than he was the day he fixed Tony’s boat.

Tony turns to him with a tense smile. “I don’t think I’ve screwed up with you yet, have I?”

Steve’s tempted to say that he hasn’t just because he wants Tony to feel better about all this, but then he remembers that he _is_ angry, and that’s not entirely true. “You did break a rule within about two minutes of coming to pick me up, so there’s that.”

“If you’re referring to the rule about me not buying you anything, you’ll note that I’m in total compliance.” The smart tone of Tony’s voice matches the quirk of a smug grin. Irritated, Steve shakes his head. Tony explains. “If you recall, you told me that I couldn’t buy _you_ anything. You didn’t say anything about her.” Now Steve frowns. “What? I’m a business man. It’s my job to find loopholes in contracts!”

 _Nice._ “I said equal footing,” he corrects. “If _you_ recall. That’s not equal footing. You just spent more money on her in one night than I’ll be able to this whole year.”

Tony has to realize that, but he feigns ignorance. “Heh. Oops?”

Steve shakes his head. He tries to be say something more about it. He knows he should. Tony effectively went over his head to buy Maggie something extremely expensive and potentially inappropriate; no five year-old needs a top-of-the-line tablet computer so fancy the average adult can’t even buy it. He can’t manage it, though. He doesn’t feel good about it, but Tony really looks earnest and genuine. “I’m sorry,” Tony offers in a tone that says he’s not at all sorry. “Just thought she’d like it.”

Steve exhales slowly and tries to relax. “I know. It’s alright.”

“She’s really smart, you know,” Tony adds, and there’s this note to his voice, this look in his eyes. He’s prodding for information.

Steve’s not rising to the bait. He looks outside and realizes they’re heading to St. Petersburg. That makes him nervous (well, _more_ nervous). “Where are we going anyway?” he asks after another uncomfortable beat.

“Somewhere cool,” Tony replies nonchalantly. Steve grimaces, not at all certain he likes the sound of that. For some reason, it never occurred to him that Tony would _take_ him somewhere (which is completely stupidity) or that that _somewhere_ may be beyond what’s right around his area. They’re speeding south toward the city right along the coast, and Steve heart starts beating faster.

The silence that returns yet again isn’t pleasant, but Steve’s so concerned about the reality of this – _you’re going out on a date with another man with Tony Stark what the hell are you thinking_ – that he’s not really noticing Tony glance at him and sigh. “Do you always worry so much?”

Steve jerks from staring out the car window at the silvery, glassy ocean twinkling with the sunset. “Huh?”

“You,” Tony says, pressing on the accelerator a bit. The race car purrs, gunning forward even faster, and Steve grips the leather-bound handle of the door before he can stop himself. “You always look like you’re about ready to bolt. Don’t you relax?”

Steve grunts before he can stop himself. It’s rueful and a little tortured. “Can’t when you’re raising a kid by yourself.” That’s not the whole truth, but it’s enough of one.

Tony lifts a shoulder to that. “Suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t know.” Steve spots the skyline of St. Petersburg, brightly lit against the twilight sky. They’re on the bridge now, racing toward the city across the water fast enough that Steve thinks Tony is lucky to be so rich as to pay off all the speeding tickets he must have. “You can talk about it if you want.”

“About what?”

“Yourself. Your life. You know, stuff like that.”

Well, at least it didn’t take long to get to this point. Steve shifts uncomfortably again in his seat, gripping the door even harder. “Okay, there you go again,” Tony says. “Looking all nervous.”

“I am nervous,” Steve responds a little more sharply than he intended. He glances at Tony. “You want to tell me about _yourself_?”

There’s another shrug. “Point taken. The touchy-feely stuff probably comes on, like, date two or three? I dunno. As you can imagine, I don’t often make it past this one.” If that’s meant to be a joke, it’s not funny. Steve’s frown must be really obvious. Tony sighs. “Look, Steve.” That sends a jolt of surprise through Steve, one that has him gripping the armrest of his seat even harder and turning and regarding Tony dead on with wide eyes, because it’s the first time Tony has said his name without all the flirty “boat mechanic” nonsense and so casually, so _normally._ “If you don’t want to do all that get-to-know-you small talk crap, that’s fine with me. Frankly, I don’t even know how to do it, so I’ll probably suck at it. I mean… if you _want_ to do that, I’ll listen.”

“No,” Steve says softly, shaking his head and looking back out the window.

“Alright, cool, because I have to be honest. I’m nervous, too.” Tony gives a crooked smile. “You’re not the only one wondering if there’s anything to me other than the rich asshole stereotype, okay.” Again, that’s surprisingly open for a guy who just said he doesn’t want to talk about himself, let alone about anything personal. Steve doesn’t know what to say. He probably should be more dubious, but for whatever reason, he’s not. _Again._ “So let’s just go out tonight and have a good time, yeah? Relax. No expectations beyond a nice dinner and some entertainment. And I have to be honest about this, too. Where we’re going… It’s expensive.” Steve winces. “Before you get all mega frowny again, we’re not going there because I’m trying to pay you off or lull you into doing stuff with me. I’m not buying you. At least not maliciously.” Another sigh puffs out Tony’s lips. “I’m screwing this up.”

Steve’s frown loosens into a bit of a grin. He can’t help it. “Not really.”

“I’m taking you to this place because I can and because I think you’ll like it. It’s got a dinner view kinda unlike anything else, and you seem to enjoy boats and sailing, so I hope this is gonna be a hit. But I am not breaking any more rules, okay? I just want you to have a good time, and I want to have a good time with you. No past or future. Just the present.”

That’s trite but oddly comforting. Steve can’t remember the last time he’s lived in the moment. He takes a deep breath and lets that smile get fuller. “That does sound nice.”

“Figured it would,” Tony declares with another grin of his own. “So just relax and go with it and above all: don’t worry.” He reaches over, takes Steve’s hand from where he’s clutching the armrest, and tugs it loose until he can weave their fingers together.

Steve stares at him a moment more before dropping his gaze to their linked hands. This touch isn’t as shocking and sudden as the kiss a couple days ago, but it still sets every nerve in his body tingling. Tony smiles at him, sweeping his thumb over Steve’s knuckles before letting him go and going back to driving. Steve lets go of a long, cleansing breath. _Enough._ He settles himself and tries to enjoy the ride. _Don’t worry so much._ He promises himself he’s going to try.

* * *

His promise lasts all of a few minutes until Tony’s pulling the car up to the pier. What’s in front of them seems ostentatious; a sleek cruise ship, far too large to be a yacht but not as big as a passenger liner, is docked there. It’s probably big enough to carry hundreds of people, with black glass windows, walking decks, and a pool and helipad towards its aft sections. The lights are on, and Steve can hear music and chatter even from the parking area as he gets out of the car. A valet is arranging something with Tony, and then the car is pulling away and Tony’s right next to him as he gawks. “Tell me this isn’t yours?” Steve asks in a small voice. He’s honestly concerned.

Lightly Tony laughs. “No. Why? Would it impress you if it was?” That’s said like he’s willing to flat-out _buy_ the ship just to see what Steve would do. Flummoxed, Steve stammers and shakes his head, and Tony laughs more. “Kidding. No, this is a dinner cruise.”

A dinner cruise? Somehow that seems very much not like Tony Stark. Of course, Steve should have put the clues together. Dinner with a view and his loves of boats? _Boats. This is not a boat!_ “O–okay,” Steve says dumbly, still absolutely befuddled.

“That alright? I figured you wouldn’t want paparazzi all over us. This place is… _exclusive_.”

Paparazzi. _Holy shit._ That’s _another_ thing that hasn’t occurred to Steve until now. Tony Stark isn’t just wealthy and eccentric and enigmatic. He’s also a celebrity, one of the country’s biggest, and that means the paparazzi is all over him all the time. That’s how Bucky knows all that stuff he said.

Tony frowns. He’s a couple steps closer to the gangway that leads into the ship, but he’s stopped and looking back at Steve. “Is this alright?” he asks again, this time far less rhetorically.

Apparently Steve is still just standing there, glued to his spot. _God Almighty._ The enormity of this situation is right in front of him, literally and figuratively. He’s on a date with a billionaire CEO playboy celebrity. A _celebrity._ And he’s a nobody. He _needs_ to be a nobody because if anyone finds out the truth, if Tony finds out–

“Steve?”

Steve snaps from his moderately panicked reverie and focuses. Tony is still there, watching him with concern in his brown eyes. “Are you really okay?”

 _Idiot._ “Yeah! Yeah.” He jerks into motion, crosses the pier, and steps onto the gangway. “Sorry. Just… it’s a lot to take in.”

Tony seems to be convinced. He beams. “I aim to please, gorgeous.”

That nearly has Steve stumbling. It _definitely_ has him reeling, and he stares at Tony because nobody – not even Peggy – has ever called him gorgeous. Or beautiful. Or anything like that. Peggy told him he was handsome now and then, but she wasn’t big on that kind of talk, so when she said it, it was always incredibly meaningful. Truly from the heart. And Tony’s still grinning cheekily, so damn proud of himself for Steve’s reaction, so is he slinging that compliment around like it’s nothing? A casual thing for a casual fling?

 _No._ Tony’s smile softens. “Come on.”

They go up the gangway. It’s not very long, and at the other end, there’s a man in a tuxedo waiting for them. “Mr. Stark,” he greets with a bit of a bow, which seems so weird and ludicrous, but Tony takes it in stride like it’s normal to be treated like royalty. The man has a strange accent that Steve can’t quite place. “We received your message.”

“Clearly,” Tony replies. “Thanks for accommodating me. I know it was last minute.” He says that like the words don’t seem so familiar. Thanking someone like this for something. Less assumption of service and more appreciation. Steve thinks back to what Tony said in the car, about trying to do better. Is this part of that? Or is he overthinking everything?

The man smiles, looking a tad perplexed himself. “Of course. We live to serve the Stark family.”

“Cool. My suite’s ready then?”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

 _Suite?_ Steve doesn’t like the sound of that. He also doesn’t like the fact that Tony didn’t introduce him (although is that weird?) and he definitely doesn’t care for how the guy is looking at him. It’s a little dubious and a lot dismissive. It takes Steve a second to figure out why. How many other people has Tony brought here like this? Is he so easy to dismiss because he’s one of a parade? Nameless just because he’s another face? The flavor of the night? That’s… horrifying to consider. He must freeze again, because Tony turns back to him and shakes his head.

It’s like he can read Steve’s mind. “Not like that. Jeez. The suite’s private and it’s amazing and it’s just for dinner.” Steve’s cheeks burn at the implication, even if he was thinking it. “You just automatically jump to the worst conclusion imaginable, huh.”

“Habit,” Steve manages once he gets his wits about him.

“Well, stop it.” Tony steps nearer and drops his tone. This close, Steve can smell his cologne, see again that his eyes are so sharp and glitter with gold. He expects an admonishment or annoyance, but Tony just grins, searching Steve’s eyes like this is the greatest adventure ever. “You know, you’re going to have to trust me at some point for this to work.”

Steve doesn’t even know what to say. This is all so overwhelming. God, this is Tony Stark, and Steve’s _here_ with him a date, here on this incredible ship that seems to be especially for the ultra-wealthy, and he’s a guy out with another guy for the first time, and _already_ the topic of sex has come up. Of course, his own stupid, paranoid, anxious brain is what brought it up, but it’s there all the same. “I trust you.” He hears himself say that, and he’s not sure he believes it, but he’s saying it all the same.

Tony beams again, and it’s downright beautiful. “Awesome. Let’s go.”

They head deeper inside the ship. Once they reach the main area, their guide bows again and quietly takes his leave. Steve barely notices because he’s too busy staring. He sees right away that “rich” doesn’t quite describe the interior. He’s never been aboard a cruise ship, but he has to imagine that level of extravagance pales in comparison with this. Everything around him is glass, silver, and chrome, sleek and flawless. The marbled walk leads to a magnificent atrium, filled with modern splendor. The decks open above, low light shining on silver railings and balustrades. Steve looks up at the staircases and elevators. It looks like the foyer of a hotel, like one of the fancy ones he went to with Peggy in France. There are men _everywhere_ , not all dressed in suits and tuxedos but everyone looks wealthy and powerful. The women with them are just as amazing, sultry and exuding just as much strength and influence with jewelry and beautiful dresses from designers that Steve wouldn’t be able to name even with proper coaching (and Peggy used to coach him, not so much on that but on how to act and what to say and how to appear to be _one of them_ ). Right now he feels like everyone is looking at him.

The flavor of the night, dressed in garbage from Men’s Wearhouse.

Steve drops his gaze, cheeks heating in shame, and follows behind Tony like some sort of servant. Tony notices right away and shakes his head. “Come on,” he says, a tad long-suffering as he reaches for Steve’s hand and tugs him gently forward until they’re walking side by side. “Much better.” That does make Steve feel marginally better, but he’s still feeling absolutely like a fish out of water. He’s really caught between wanting to gawk at everything (the bar across the way looks like it’s redefining the concept of top-shelf) and wanting to hide. As they pass lounges and private areas festooned in smoke and shadows, he feels very much like he’s wandering into a new world. Beyond the fact this place is so wealthy, it seems a tad… disreputable? Maybe? Secretive. The floors are marble, and there are fountains and chandeliers and it’s like something out of a Bond movie, slightly dangerous vibes and all.

And it only gets even more amazing. “Wow,” Steve breathes when they reach a huge open area at the stern of the ship. Tall windows display the water churned behind them, the lights of the city twinkling in the distance. Already the ship has left the pier and is heading back out into the bay. Steve can hardly feel it moving, though now that he’s aware, there’s a bit of a hum beneath his feet and a tiny sway. Did this ship dock in St. Petersberg _just_ to pick them up? That seems impossible, but Steve gets a feeling it’s not. The amount of power Tony has… _We live to serve the Stark family._ To be honest, it’s pretty terrifying.

So is what’s before them. They’re a deck above a massive lower area, which has bars and lounges of course, but more apparent are the numerous slots machines and card tables with dealers decked out in crisp, white shirts, red cummerbunds, and red bow-ties. The tables are packed with people, mostly men, and they’re all dressed in tuxedos or other expensive attire. They’re drinking, smoking, and chatting. This is a casino. Steve’s never been to a casino in his life. He catches sight of a nearby dealer organizing chips. The _lowest_ denomination is a thousand dollars. _Holy shit._ These people are all high rollers. Whales.

Where in the world has Tony brought him?

“You want to try?” Tony asks. Again that snaps Steve right out of his reverie. Shocked, he turns to the other man, finding a coy smile on his lips. “Pretty sure you have to wait until the ship’s out into international waters. No one’s playing yet. See?”

“No, no, I couldn’t,” Steve says. He looks away fast, feeling his cheeks heating again. God, it’d be nice if he could stop blushing like a damn stupid fool.

“Sure, you can,” Tony assures. “I’ll stake you. You a gambling man?” Steve doesn’t answer at first, which is an answer in and of itself. “Figured. You don’t seem the type.”

Steve’s not sure what the type is. It probably isn’t good. “Can’t gamble with what you don’t have,” he says matter-of-factly as he walks away from the impressive view.

Those words have probably never been spoken here. Tony cocks an eyebrow and follows. “Suppose that’s true.”

They head toward a bank of luxurious elevators. Then it’s a quick ride up to other decks. Steve stands stiffly, feeling better now that they’re away from all those people but yet out of his league, and the tension between them is ratcheting up again. It’s still nerve-wracking and uncomfortable, but there’s more to it now, something a bit hungry and anticipatory. Steve keeps stealing glances at Tony, but Tony’s fiddling with his phone. “Sorry,” he says after a moment. “Work bullshit.”

“It’s fine.” Another few quiet moments pass. Steve watches Tony scowl a little more as he texts or emails or something. Then he sighs, shutting his phone off and sliding it into his suit jacket. “Must be hard, running a huge company.”

“You’re not wrong,” Tony replies. “Thankfully, Pepper – my PA, remember? – does most the heavy lifting. I’m mostly along for the ride, which is good considering how proficient I am at screwing up.”

Tony is awfully self-deprecating. It’s pretty surprising. “Must not be that proficient,” Steve says. “I mean, you’re the richest guy alive, aren’t you?”

The elevator dings softly as it deposits them on their floor. Tony smooths his suit. “Close to it, but that’s not my doing. Prodigal son and all that.” Steve frowns. “And trust me, I tried to screw that up, too. Partially succeeded.” He doesn’t give Steve a chance to ask more, because he’s grinning widely and reaching for Steve’s hand. “Come on.”

The elevator has deposited them not in a hallway to a suite but _in_ the suite. Steve steps off and finds himself unabashedly staring again. The place is huge and really magnificent. There’s a recessed seating area with a view of the stern of the ship. They must be above that casino. Beyond the seating area, there’s a dining room, bigger than the entirety of his apartment. Stairs lead up to another deck above. Far beyond these huge living spaces, Steve can see blue waves rolling across an exquisitely tiled, shadowy ceiling. A pool. A _private_ pool in this private suite with its own private decks and private dining room. This must be the largest, most amazing, _most expensive_ suite on the ship. As Steve takes it all in with unabashed awe, there’s this niggling whisper creeping around the back of his head. It’s private and swanky and expensive and _secluded_ because of what Tony does here, who he brings here.

_Stop it._

“Pretty cool, huh? And we can eat without anyone bothering us. They’re going to send up dinner.” Tony’s strolling past him, heading to a bar over on the other side of the leather chairs. “You want something to drink?”

Tentatively Steve follows after him. “No, it’s okay.”

“Is that because you don’t drink, don’t want to drink, or don’t know what to drink?”

It’s back to wondering if Tony’s making fun of him. He decides not to think about it. “All of the above. I haven’t been out to drink much since Maggie was born, and even then it was just beer. Cheap beer.” Tony laughs from behind the bar as he gets two glasses out. “I wouldn’t know what’s good.”

“Well, this is pretty solid,” Tony declares, pouring some kind of amber liquid into each glass. He comes back around with them once he’s done, and he hands one to Steve. “Strong and smooth. And expensive of course.”

Steve sniffs it, a pungent aroma striking him and almost making him recoil. “Does the cost make it better?”

“When it comes to alcohol? Definitely.” Tony puts the top back on the bottle. “Although cheap beer still gets the job done, doesn’t it?”

To that Steve grunts. It’s definitely true that he’s never been one for drinking, especially not liquor and definitely not lately. During the war, though, and after Peggy died… Once then. He remembers that painfully enough, sitting on the floor in his apartment in back in Brooklyn as he tried to put together a crib, Maggie finally asleep in the bassinet he managed to buy from a second-hand store, a six pack on the coffee table because that was all that was in the fridge, cracking open a can and wondering what the hell he was supposed to do… 

He takes a sip, and the liquor burns its way down his throat. That banishes the memory. He tries to hide his wince, but Tony spots it as he flops into one of the leather chairs. “Decent stuff, right?”

Steve swallows just to get the misery gone. “Yeah,” he croaks.

Devilishly Tony grins, raising his glass to him. “Cheers.” Steve tries another sip, and this one burns too, but that settles into this pleasant warmth that spreads through his chest. Surprised by how nice that is, he sits across from Tony without really meaning to. Tony sets his glass to the coffee table. It’s already empty. “So!” he says, leaning back in his seat again. He doesn’t offer anything after that other than a sly cock of his eyebrows.

Steve presses his lips together in a feeble attempt at a smile. “So…” he offers. Tony tips his head, still arching a brow, but Steve stays quiet, and this tense silence descends yet again. Neither of them speaks for what feels like an eternity, another torturously long, uncomfortable infinity in which the only sound is the soft hum of the ship. It’s awkward as hell. This whole thing is an endless cycle of awkwardness.

Eventually Tony’s gift of gab (as Bucky’s mother always called it) prevails yet again. And he goes right for the terrible. “You come here often?” Steve answers that with a wan look, and Tony grins. “What? It’s a classic!”

“Do you?” Steve asks instead, sipping more of the drink.

Tony looks a bit surprised, but he gives a neutral shrug. “Eh. Not as much as I used to. Plus this is mostly my dad’s haunt.”

Steve nods, not sure if he should be relieved. He looks around and takes in the grandeur of the suite anew. “So your dad’s using it then.”

“Would be, probably, if he hadn’t kicked the bucket about six months ago.”

Steve’s gaze snaps right back to him. “Oh,” he says after a beat. “I’m so sorry.”

Tony’s hopping up lithely and heading back to the bar. “It’s fine. Cancer.” He says that pretty matter-of-factly, but it seems strained and forced. More of the bourbon or whatever goes into his glass. “Surprised you don’t know. It was all over the news.”

Shame prickles over Steve. “I don’t pay much attention.”

“Noticed,” Tony says. Steve frowns, so Tony barrels on. “Yeah, it was a big thing. Social media and 24-hour news networks and even the archaic papers. Trended for days. Dad always loved to make headlines. You know.” Steve doesn’t know, and it sounds like there’s some pretty significant pain underneath that not-at-all-convincing front of debonnair flippancy. Obviously there’s something between Tony and his father. That box of stuff on the yacht was there for a reason. “And those headlines were fantastic. ‘Will the younger Stark step up to take his father’s place? Can he carry the legacy of innovation and invention? Is the future of the world’s premier futurist still so bright?’ Blah, blah, blah.” He downs the drink and then chuckles ruefully. “So much for not doing the personal stuff. What about you and your dad?”

The change in focus is dizzying. “My dad?”

“Yeah. My astute knowledge of biology tells me you have one.”

Steve smiles softly. “Not really. He died right after I was born. I never knew him.”

Tony answers with a soft grunt. “Would it make me a dick if I said that you’re lucky?” He doesn’t give Steve a chance to respond because he clearly _knows_ the answer given the shame in his eyes. “What about your mom?”

Steve doesn’t know why he answers. This conversation is driving him to be on edge. “Gone, too. She died when I was in high school.”

Tony looks moderately surprised. “Same. Well, I was in college. But I would have been in high school. I mean, I graduated from high school when I was fourteen, and she died when I was seventeen, so… yeah.” He smiles.

“You graduated from high school when you were fourteen?” Steve says, and he is outright shocked. He knows Tony’s smart, but he never realized he was _that_ smart.

Tony brushes it off like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Anyway, there was a car accident. Dad walked away. She didn’t.” That sounds awful and yet again loaded with pain behind the emotionless words. He shakes himself free of his thoughts and turns back to Steve. “Brothers and sisters?”

Steve gives little smile, despite the sudden somber mood. “None. Well, not unless you count Bucky.”

“You said he’s been your friend since forever. Where’d you two meet?”

“Back home in Brooklyn.”

Tony lifts an eyebrow in surprise again. “You’re from Brooklyn?” Steve goes cold. That just slipped out, but maybe he shouldn’t have said it. Maybe he shouldn’t be saying any of this. “That’s a long way away. How’d you end up here?”

Steve flounders a second before raising his shoulder in half a shrug. “It’s just where we ended up.”

“We?”

“Maggie and me. But then Bucky, too.”

Tony nods, digesting that. “But you’re alone now. Family-wise. Other than your daughter.”

Steve keeps his face impassive. “Yeah.”

“Then we have a lot in common.” Tony pushes himself off the counter after a hesitant look at the bottle and his empty glass. “Except for the Florida part. And the kid part. At least not that I know of.” He’s clearly waiting for some kind of response, but Steve doesn’t give it. He’s staring into his glass, trying to keep his mind blank but thinking too much all the same. He barely notices Tony sit back down across from him. “Have to admit I’m still kinda reeling over that.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “I really don’t want to talk about her mother.” He’s blurting that out before he thinks to, like a hard stop. “I just don’t. Please. Don’t ask me.”

Tony just stares at him with this weird expression on his face. It seems like a mixture of disappointment and maybe a little bit of annoyance. This isn’t going well. Everything about it, from being here so out of his league with a billionaire known for having a good time and avoiding all the consequences to the fact that dates usually require a certain level of vulnerability to the fact that Tony looks honestly hurt Steve won’t confide in him despite everything he said before… How the hell can he relax in a situation like this?

The answer is he can’t, so he’s standing, again before he thinks to. “Look, Mr. Stark, this isn’t going to work.”

Tony frowns sharply, looking up at him. “Oh, good. We’re back to ‘Mr. Stark’ again.” He shakes his head, jaw tightening. “What’d I do now? That last thing was a joke, by the way. You know that, right.”

Steve’s so flustered he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. “I don’t – I just can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

“What is _this_ , pray tell? Spending time with me? Talking? Having dinner? Giving me a chance?”

Exasperated, Steve throws up his arms. “No, you tell me. What is this? What do you want from me?”

Tony’s calm in the face of his distress. “I thought we established before that this is a date. And I think the answer to that second thing is fairly obvious.” Steve squints, shaking his head. Tony offers a smile. “A chance.”

That’s not the answer Steve wants. “I don’t get this. I don’t know what you’re looking for! I don’t understand at all. What about me has you this interested? It can’t just be because you’re curious! It can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because the world doesn’t work that way! And you’re somebody, a _huge_ somebody, and I’m a nobody.”

Sighing, Tony leans forward. “Did it cross your mind that I don’t think you’re nobody? I already told you I have a feeling about you.” Steve can’t stop his annoyed huff, biting his lip and turning away. “And even if you are nobody, that doesn’t mean you’re nothing. You’re obviously something to that kid.”

That’s surprisingly touching. Steve stares at Tony, trying to see if there’s malice or manipulation behind that, but there doesn’t seem to be. There _never_ seems to be. “I’m not talking about her or about her mother or about me. I can’t talk about it.”

“You didn’t make that a rule,” Tony reminds argumentatively, “and I thought you said you trust me.”

“And you said you didn’t want to do personal! But you immediately launch into our dead parents and lonely lives and–”

“Okay, point taken,” Tony says calmly. He heaves a long breath. “Look, I think I said as much, and it’s really obvious, but I suck at this. Relationships. I don’t know how to do them. It’s obvious that you fibbed back there, probably for my sake.”

This is getting more and more heated. Steve doesn’t know why he feels so emotional about it. He feels like he’s letting Tony down, letting himself down as well. “About trusting you? Why should I? I don’t know you. I think we’ve established that, too. And I don’t know what you want!”

Tony shakes his head. “Damn, dude. What’s happened to you that’s made you so nervous and uncomfortable?” Steve averts his eyes. That shame is back, and it’s almost crippling. Tony pauses, clearly waiting for an answer, but there isn’t one coming. “Maybe there’s nothing and it is just me. I don’t know. I don’t want to _make_ you uncomfortable. I told you that, and I told you what I’m after. I’ll keep saying it, because you seem to suck at listening – or at having some faith in me. _All_ I want is to forget a bunch of bullshit for a few hours. Escape everything for a while. _No_ past or future, right? I just want to have fun and relax, and I want to do it with you, because I do think you’re somebody, Steve, and I’d like to know who you are and why I feel that way. I’m not asking you to tell me your life story. I don’t need to know it. I’m not sure that I want to know it. I just want to _not_ be who I am for a bit. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

At that, Steve turns back. He does feel like that sometimes. Not that he’d ever give up taking care of Maggie. Not that he ever regrets taking her, because he doesn’t in the least, but… Bucky’s right. This isn’t the life he envisioned having. Barely making things work. Living without so much that she needs and being so damn scared to try and get it for her. All this goddamn doubt. Steve can’t deny that.

Tony goes on. “You not knowing me? _Not_ caring about the money and the fame and all the crap I drag behind me everywhere I go? Not gonna lie. That is definitely one of the things I like about you.” He pauses, like he’s considering that himself. Then he shakes his head. “We’re talking in circles. I can’t make you feel good about me or about this, and I don’t want to have to. If you feel like you can’t even try, then you’re right: this isn’t going to work.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, and it gets uncomfortably silent still another time. This time, though, it’s fairly obvious Tony is giving him an out. He can take it if he wants. He knows he should. They really have been talking in stupid, ridiculous circles. For God’s sake, he’s been _thinking_ in circles for days, dizzying ones, and he can’t be this indecisive. He should just walk away. He still doesn’t owe this guy anything.

But he can’t. More circular reasoning. The same damn thing, over and over again. And he does owe Tony an explanation at the very least. Sighing and wringing his hands a bit, he tries to find the words, but he feels so stupid about all of this. God, when did he get this way, this uncertain of himself? So freaking paranoid and weak? Did putting Maggie on that bus permanently damage his sense of confidence? He never doubted taking her for a second, never questioned running to Florida, never truly debated keeping her even when he knew she’d be better off with a true family. What the hell’s the matter with him now, now that she’s off to school and Tony’s blown like a hurricane into his life?

What could _possibly_ happen if he tells Tony the truth?

Steve presses his palm to his forehead. _Just tell him._ “You’re not screwing this up. I am. I–”

He doesn’t get a chance to say more. There’s a knock at the suite’s exterior doors. Tony waits a second, but Steve’s lost his nerve, so then he stands and heads over. He opens the doors to reveal numerous waiters bringing in dinner. The parade of silver carts is astounding, bowls and platters and chafing dishes. So is the number of staff pushing them. Steve’s too shocked at the array, at the _feast_ for just two people, to think to say anything. Tony directs the men to the dining room and asks them to set up. Then he comes to stand before Steve, and Steve wonders for a second if he’s going to ask him to continue where he left off.

That’s not the case. “Alright, we’re going to start over, okay? And we’re going to try something else. We’re going to sit and eat and drink and talk about stupid crap. _Absolutely_ nothing personal.” Tony smiles at him, utterly charming and disarming, and takes his hand again. “Movies. Music. Favorite colors. _Star Wars_ versus _Star Trek_. Who wore it better. Boats. Whatever we want. Alright?”

Just like that, all’s forgiven and forgotten. Steve nods. “Alright.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So here we have it! A special guest appearance and Steve's backstory. With his backstory I'm taking a few liberties. I'm not a legal expert by any means. I do my research, but that doesn't guarantee everything is accurate in this chapter (and the rest of the story for that matter). Also, as you all know, sometimes we have to twist reality around to make a compelling tale :-) Anyway, enjoy! And thanks for reading.

The dinner is incredible. There’s been a time or two where Steve had a chance to eat food like this, but he didn’t feel comfortable enough then to actually enjoy it. Surprisingly enough, he is now, and he knows that’s due to Tony. Despite their date’s rocky start, it’s going well. Tony’s silly plan to talk about “stupid crap” is working wonders. It’s diffused everything, given them that fresh start. Of course, over the first course (lobster risotto that was so creamy, Steve could hardly believe it), the awkward silence threatened again because Steve basically had no idea how to recover from the mess of before. Thankfully, Tony’s love of babbling yet again took over, and all the sudden he’s blabbing about exactly what he promised. The latest movies (and the actors and actresses in them – apparently he’s met a lot of them). Music (apparently he’s met some of the biggest bands as well, partied with quite a few of them). Gossip about people Steve doesn’t know and will never meet. It’s all meaningless to Steve, but it’s light and fun and entertaining, and the evening begins to speed by. Before Steve even realizes it, the dinner’s almost done.

He can’t remember the last time he’s enjoyed a meal so much. He probably never has. The food is extravagant and lush and amazing and it’s gone in a wink. It’s all truffle sauce and scallops and expertly sliced vegetables and aioli and something called wagyu beef. He’s never heard of that before, but it’s so succulent, so tender, so buttery it practically melts in his mouth. He must lose track of the conversation as he’s savoring it, because the next thing he notices his plate is nearly clean and Tony is looking at him with an amused smirk on his face. “You can lick it if you want. I won’t tell.”

Steve’s glad for the low, romantic lighting. At least it’s hiding his blush. “Sorry. Never had anything this good.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You want more? I can just order some.”

“No!” Steve gasps with a flustered smile. “No, it’s fine. It’s plenty actually. Thank you.”

Tony grins more. His plates aren’t as empty, as if this is just a meal like any other to him. That’s because it _is_ a meal like any other to him. This is how he eats all the time. “I have to say, and don’t get freaked out, but watching you enjoy things is… kinda intoxicating.”

 _Intoxicating._ That sends a jolt through Steve, just like being called “gorgeous” did earlier. He sets his fork down with a shockingly loud clank, feeling his face burning again and his eyes widening. Tony’s just smiling like a cat that’s gotten the cream. “That’s the very kind of the definition of getting freaked out.”

Steve manages to gather himself. He clears his throat. “So after you got back to New York?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, by that time, they went ahead and cast somebody else to play me. Well, this character based on me.” Tony reaches for his wine glass and sucks the rest down. “You want more wine at least?”

Steve’s glass is nearly empty. He’s tempted to say no, but the waiter who’s been tending to them is already refilling it. He takes it afterward and swallows down a sip. He’s feeling good. Warm. “And how did that go?”

“Awful. Didn’t you see it?” Steve shakes his head, setting his glass back down. Tony chuckles. “Wow, you really are living under a rock. Or a seashell down here, I guess.” Steve gives a half-hearted shrug. “The movie bombed at the box office. I told them the only person who can play Tony Stark _is_ Tony Stark, but they didn’t listen, so I suppose they get their just desserts.”

Steve shrugs again with a small smile. He has no idea. Then it gets quiet. For the first time since they started eating, the conversation just dies. The waiters are clearing away the dinner plates, and Steve waits nervously for Tony to say something. Another, smaller plate of something chocolate and fabulous looking is put in front of him. “I don’t think I could eat another bite,” he comments.

“Yeah, you can. It’s incredible. Like sex on a spoon.”

Steve looks up at that, but Tony’s just flirting again with a coy, knowing smile. It’s still so dizzying, how quickly he turns it on and off. Steve looks back down and slides his fork into the chocolate cake. The second he takes a bite, he can see what Tony’s saying. It’s almost too rich to eat, so thick, luscious, and delicious. He looks back up at Tony. Tony grins. “See?”

“It’s really good,” Steve agrees. “Never ceases to amaze me how well you eat.”

Tony’s smile shifts into confusion, and Steve almost chokes on his cake when he realizes what he just said, what it implies. Every muscle in his body goes tense. He drops his gaze. _Shit._

But Tony doesn’t question, at least not about that. “So… I’ve babbled on about my stupid crap. You haven’t offered much of yours.”

Steve’s still reeling from his idiotic comment. There’s a cold sweat prickling his lower back, and all he can hear is the rush of blood between his ears. “Um…”

“What movies have you seen?” Tony shovels some chocolate cake in his mouth like it’s suddenly incidental.

For a second, Steve just flounders. “Recently? Not much.” He and Bucky went out to see some superhero flick maybe six months ago, but that was about it. “No time or money.”

“Music?”

Steve can’t even think. “Uh… I’m not sure. Whatever’s on the radio.”

Tony frowns. “Social media? Twitter? Tumblr? Snappychat?” Steve turns back to his dessert, bowing his head. “What am I saying? Your phone is, like, from the Dark Ages.”

He fights for a grin. “So you said before.”

“What about Maggie? Doesn’t she like anything? Disney Princesses?”

Now Steve smiles more broadly. “Are you kidding? She went as a mad scientist for Halloween last year.”

To that, Tony laughs. His eyes glitter with amusement. “A child after my own heart.”

“I can’t get her into a dress. Even as a baby, she just refused. I tried to take her for pictures once. She was probably eighteen months old. Bought her this real pretty white dress with blue fringe. She ran around the apartment screaming when I tried to get her into it. I eventually dressed her, but then she screamed all the way to the photographer. Screamed while we were there.”

“Sounds aggravating,” Tony laments, drinking more of his wine.

Steve shrugs again. “It was.” He certainly remembers being irritated about the whole thing. Frankly, he was uncertain from the beginning about having the pictures done. His mom had always made a big deal about having pictures taken of him when he was little, so it just felt like something he _should_ do, even if it scared him to take her somewhere (back then, that really terrified him, as irrational as it was, so he only did it as necessary). Given how much Maggie despised that dress, she wouldn’t sit for the picture, crying huge crocodile tears that broke his heart, so he ended up undressing her right there in the bathroom at the mall and putting her in her favorite romper that was in her diaper bag. He still has the picture of her smiling face, rosy cheeks and deep brown eyes and mussed hair, right by his bed. He still recalls how his heart swelled with joy at seeing her giggle and smile for the photographer.

Pulling from his thoughts, he smiles. “But it’s funny with kids. You have to let them be who they are.”

Tony seems somewhat taken aback by that. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” His tone sounds strange, and that weird surprise on his face persists a moment more. Then he clears his throat. “So no _My Little Pony._ ”

“No,” Steve confirms. “Try _Nova_ and _How It’s Made._ ”

Tony stares right at him, and the strange light in his eyes gets sharper. “She’s really smart.”

That’s not the first time Tony’s said that. In the car, he mentioned the same thing. She’s smart. Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he spends a moment finishing off the decadent chocolate thing. What’s the point of lying? He can’t hide that. Tony’s seen it, and Tony’s smart, too. “Yeah, I know. I, uh… I don’t know where she gets it from.”

That’s an invitation. Steve realizes it the second he says it, and he waits for the inevitable. It comes but not as directly as he anticipated. “So I take it fixing boats isn’t your natural forte?”

Steve considers what to say. It seems a bit like a nice way of suggesting he knows Maggie didn’t get her intelligence from him. Which is definitely is the case. As to why he’s fixing boats, he doesn’t want to lie, but he doesn’t want to open that door wider. “No. It’s just a job.”

“You seem pretty good at it.” Steve smiles at the compliment. “But what are you _really_ good at? What would you rather be doing?”

Steve takes a sip of whatever after-dinner wine was just poured into a glass in front of him. As the waiter serves Tony and collects their dessert plates, the question just hangs there. Would it be so bad to answer? God, he can’t remember the last time _anyone’s_ been interested in _his_ interests. Peggy, probably, but considering all the drama around what she was going through at the time, and considering he was coming off his tour in Iraq, his dreams from before never factored in much. Then Maggie came into things. And now… _What does it matter?_ “Actually… I wanted to go to art school after high school.”

Obviously that shocks Tony. “Really?” Steve pauses a moment to drink more of the after-dinner liquor. It’s thick, warm, and surprisingly sweet. Then he nods. It’s quiet again, awkwardly so, while he waits for Tony to ask more. Maybe he won’t.

Of course, he does. “That’s… somewhat surprising. Not you-having-a-kid level of surprising, but surprising. Why didn’t you go? Was it because…” Steve grimaces, and Tony immediately backs off. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I didn’t go because I wasn’t good enough to go,” Steve replies quickly. He downs more of the drink, trying to find solace in the burn of it and hoping his excuse will be enough.

Inexplicably Tony sees right through it. “Wow. You are a terrible liar.” That makes Steve startle again. It’s so familiar to hear that, like Nat’s right there admonishing him. Like the whisper in the back of his mind berating him for the lies he’s always trying to convince himself to believe. “How good are you? Picasso-levels? Rembrandt? Warhol? I have a pretty extensive collection of artwork. Pepper buys it for me, so I know good stuff when I see it.”

Steve flushes. He downs the rest of his drink. “God, none of the above. I’m not anything special.”

“I sense a steaming pile of BS,” Tony says slyly. Steve frowns. “You really don’t have to tell me. I mean that. I can tell this is personal.”

Clearly, it’s another out. The thing is, though, that Steve doesn’t want to take it. Maybe it’s the wine he’s had or the earnest look on Tony’s face or maybe the years of ignoring this. “I couldn’t afford to go.” Tony’s expression shifts at that, though he must have seen it coming. “Maggie didn’t have anything to do with it. It was years before she was born.” He can see the sympathy (mixed with confusion because what does Tony Stark know about not being able to afford opportunities?) work its way over Tony’s face anew. Steve huffs into his wine. “And you don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

Tony shakes his head. “Who says I’m feeling sorry for you?”

Steve sighs. “Me, and the fact you basically threw money at me to update my mechanic’s shop and offered to buy me a new phone and brought Maggie a tablet _way_ too nice for a five year-old, even a smart five year-old. Oh, and this date.” He looks down. “And the way you looked when you came to pick me up.”

It’s quiet. “Nothing wrong with being poor, right?” Tony finally asks, but it’s flippant and weird, like he has no idea what to say because he’s been caught red-handed.

“I don’t know,” Steve replies. “Is there?” That comes out a little meaner than he wants, but he feels defensive.

“No? I still picked you up, didn’t I?” Sharply Steve looks away. As good as everything felt before, now it’s foreign again, all this opulence and finery and blatant power. He can’t trick himself into thinking he fits in, even after this wonderful dinner and the wine that keeps coming his way. Across the table, Tony sighs. “So now we’re back to this not working again? What, you think there’s some kind of barrier between us? Like you’re a commoner and I’m American royalty or something.” Tony shakes his head. “I have to say it’s kind of weird and annoying how worried you are about the class differential. This isn’t _Downton Abbey_ or something. Or _Pretty Woman._ ”

Maybe that should be freaking him out more than it does. “That one I have seen,” Steve quietly admits.

“Well, good. Then you know it works out in the end.”

He’s feeling dumber and dumber by the second. And like a jackass. “Tony, I’m sorry. I just–”

“Don’t. Stop apologizing, for crying out loud. Stop apologizing and stop overthinking and stop _worrying_. Christ, I thought I had baggage.” Inwardly Steve flinches. Across the table, Tony moans, slumping in his seat a little. “Ah, shit. That was insensitive. _I’m_ sorry.”

“No,” Steve says. “I had it coming.” Even though he keeps his face lowered, he looks up to see Tony better. He takes a deep breath and confesses more. “I probably could have made it in. I didn’t have the money, and my mom just passed away and there were medical bills… I didn’t want to be in debt.” That’s honest, even if it’s not the whole truth.

Tony takes that in. He sets his empty glass down. “If you could, would you still want to go?”

It takes a second for the implication to sink in. Steve feels the color drain from his face as he raises his gaze and stares at the other man. The tension of the moments before is gone, and Tony’s got this coy, sneaky smile on his face. “No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “No, you’re not doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Paying for – for tuition, or whatever! First of all, that breaks the same rule you already broke tonight!” Tony just keeps grinning. “Secondly, I can’t take that. I just can’t. And I _can’t_ go. I have Maggie. I have a job here. I have–”

“You can make anything work if you want it bad enough.”

Steve doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking. What Tony just so easily proclaimed… That you can just have something if you want it bad enough. That’s the world view of the rich. The mindset of people who have means and opportunities. It’s just not true for people like him. “You can’t be serious.”

“What if I was? What would you do?”

Steve simply flounders. He struggles to hold onto his composure, because this really isn’t fair. “Tony, I can’t take a gift like that. I’m sorry. That’s extremely kind, but I just can’t.”

Tony considers that a moment. Then this peculiar light comes to his eyes. “What if it’s not a gift?” Utterly confused, Steve just stares. He knows his mouth is hanging open and he probably looks like a moron, but he’s rather alarmed that this has suddenly come about. There is _no way_ he is taking that amount of money from Tony Stark for something he can’t even pursue and has long since given up on. There’s this thought slashing through his mind – _take it for Maggie_ – but he doesn’t listen to it. While he’s fighting back that and reeling, Tony’s standing and coming over to him. “You done eating, darling?”

“Huh? What?”

“Good. Come on.”

The next thing Steve knows, Tony is holding out his hand to him. Steve stares at his outstretched fingers, at the glint of the silver Rolex loosely around Tony’s wrist, and he’s seriously wondering what can possibly be next. Tony just smiles that charming smile of his, those depthless brown eyes filled with mystery and mischief. “Still trust me?”

Steve has no idea, but something inside him is simply entranced. It makes him want to, desperately now. So he nods and takes Tony’s hand. Tony grins even wider. “Alright. Let’s go.”

* * *

It’s silly, but Steve’s honestly surprised when they end up back out in the casino. It’s much busier here now, rowdy even with every table packed to the brim. Everywhere people are drinking and smoking and playing. Dealers are sliding cards about, roulette wheels are spinning, dice are flying against felt tables, and slot machines are ringing in this muted hum of noise. That slightly dangerous air Steve noticed before seems more potent, concentrated, and probably with good reason. As they descend the staircase, Steve feels totally misplaced again. These people are rich, and they are powerful, and even though no one is looking his way, he just knows he’s sticking out like a sore thumb.

Tony doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still holding Steve’s hand, leading them through the groups of players and onlookers. They’re up close now, and Steve can see the _wealth._ Rolex watches even glitzier than the one Tony has. Tom Ford suits. Versace dresses. Jewelry that glitters in the low, intimate light. Cuban cigars and waiters weaving around the tables with expensive drinks. No one is paying for that, because it’s comped, because these people are rich as hell and just _losing_ it to the house and the casino is more than happy to dole out booze to keep its clientele gambling. Walking around is like swimming in a sea of money. More than ever, Steve just wants to _run._

But Tony’s grip on his hand is keeping him there. It’s not tight and it’s not demanding, more grounding than anything, and he’s gently tugging Steve forward. He’s positively energized, stopping a waiter and pulling two champagne flutes from the tray. He hands one to Steve while taking a big sip of his own. “What’s your pleasure?”

Steve’s too completely overwhelmed yet again to follow along. He’s watching a roulette wheel, the shining wood and red and black spaces and the tiny white ball bouncing along the slots. It’s mesmerizing and dizzying. “What?”

“What do you want to play?”

Steve still doesn’t get it. “You want me to…”

Tony nods. “I’m going to stake you.” Steve’s eyes widen. “How much does art school cost?”

This is too unbelievable. “I don’t…”

Nonchalantly Tony sips his drink and takes Steve’s arm, directing him over to a blackjack table. “Couple hundred thousand? For a good school, I imagine?” Steve has no idea what to say. Tony raises his hand a bit to the dealer at the table. It’s fairly crowded, but almost immediately a seat becomes available to them. The same guy who met them at the ship’s entrance earlier is rushing over, as if the very second Tony wants something, it has to be provided. The man leans close to Tony, and Tony murmurs something, and the guy goes to some other man dressed in a tuxedo, and that guy goes across the room to another guy, and a few seconds later, the first person comes back with a stack of ten golden chips in a small case. He hands that to Tony, and Tony opens the cases, pulls out the case, and hands the chips to Steve.

It’s only then Steve realizes that each one of those chips is worth $10,000. His heart starts to race even more, and his mouth goes dry. “This is…”

“A hundred thousand,” Tony explains. It doesn’t seem possible that someone could look so smug yet so charming at the same time. “Payout on blackjack is two to one, so if you bet it all, there’s your two hundred grand for tuition.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I can’t take your money. I already said that.”

“I’m not giving you anything,” Tony reminds, and he tugs Steve by his shirt sleeve toward the seat. “Call it an investment, if that makes you feel better. No breaking a rule.”

“What could you possibly be investing in?” Steve stammers, looking aghast at the green tabletop before him. Everyone else, in turn, is staring at him as he butts (or is butted) into this game. He can feel his cheeks burning. The guy next to him in particular doesn’t look pleased. He’s very pale with slicked back, shoulder-length black hair and piercing emerald eyes. His clothes are very fine, a black dinner jacket over a black satin shirt with a green scarf. He seems a little shifty, glaring balefully and maybe not just because of the interruption.

But Steve can’t focus more on that because Tony is moving the stack of golden chips forward into the little circle that Steve assumes indicates this is his bet. A one hundred _thousand_ dollar bet. It’s totally insane. “I told you before that I collected art, right? Who’s to say I don’t want to collect yours someday? When you’re rich and famous and successful.” Steve just shook his head, mouth gaping. “And how is that going to happen if you never get to art school, never get that break.” Tony grins, dropping his hand to Steve’s shoulder and leaning close. “So I am investing, and you are taking my investment and _working_ to earn your money. Like anything else. Life is, after all, a game of luck.”

“That’s…” Steve doesn’t know what to say. Again and again that’s the case. And Tony’s crazy. Certifiable. By now, though, _everyone_ is watching, not just the people around the table. There’s no getting out of this, so he has to go forward. But Steve sits there like a statue. He’s never been this uncomfortable and unsure, and he has no idea what to do. “I, uh…”

“You _do_ know how to play, don’t you?” the man next to him snaps. He has a strange accent, not terribly unlike Thor’s when Steve considers it.

Steve burns with embarrassment. He knows how. In theory. Something about getting to twenty-one? Beating the house’s hand? Maybe? Steve just glances at the chips and the cards and the dealer and then at the guy next to him. As horrified as he is for his own sake, he’s even more ashamed for Tony. The man is glowering at Tony almost as much as he is at Steve. Tony seems not to notice, or, if he does, he doesn’t care in the slightest. “You ready?” he asks Steve, focused almost exclusively on him.

The whole damn table is waiting on his answer. Steve still knows he should back out and run and get as far from this as possible. Nothing about that’s changed. For crying out loud, there’s a hundred thousand dollars riding on his decisions right now. That’s unfathomable, and he’s totally ill-equipped, and this is absolutely goddamn _insane._

But he doesn’t run. Maybe it’s the rush of what Tony’s offering, of how _close_ he is. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s feeling a little drunk. Maybe… Maybe he’s just tired of worrying, tired of over-thinking everything like Natasha and Bucky and Tony himself says. Tired of playing everything safe. “Yeah,” he stammers after a beat. His face is probably as red as a tomato, and he sucks down his glass of champagne just to hide how much he’s feeling like a fool. “Yeah, hit me.”

The man next to him gives a very audible groan, rolling his eyes. “Outrageous,” he mutters under his breath but not quietly enough for Steve not to hear. There’s no time to bristle though, because the dealer is pulling cards from the shoe. They come out fast and with agility, and it’s almost dizzying as the dealer puts one in front of each of the players. After putting a card face-down in front of himself, he deals another round and places a final face-up card on top of the face-down one.

Steve’s lost. He looks at his hand. He has a five of spades and a jack of diamonds. The face cards are worth ten, aren’t they? And the suits don’t matter? So he has fifteen. And he needs twenty-one. So he should… He sighs. He has no idea.

And everyone is _still_ watching him. That brief flash of confidence he had is vanishing again. Tony, though, doesn’t let it go so easily, and even though his peers aren’t hiding their disdain for this nonsense, he leans over Steve’s shoulder and very pointedly guides him. “Okay, so that’s not great. And considering you just sat down, you can’t really know the odds of what the dealer has left in the shoe.”

“You can tell that?” Steve murmurs, shaking his head. The dealer frowns.

“Uh-huh. Anyway, so this is kinda shitty. They call it a breaking hand, breaking because it’s a weak as hell situation. If you hit and get a small card, that’d be great. But you could bust just as easily. You have about a fifty percent chance of that, not knowing anything else.”

“You’re _really_ going to teach him how to play?” the man next to Steve spat. “What is this, kindergarten for gamblers?”

Steve glances up, and he expects the casino personnel to agree. It is pretty ridiculous to have Tony advising him like this and holding everything and everyone else up. But then Steve realizes it’s _Tony Stark,_ and the casino is letting him do whatever he wants because of who he is, because whether or not he wins and they lose a hundred thousand dollars, it’s a drop in the bucket compared to what Tony brings in in the long run. Probably his mere presence is worth more than that two hundred grand, than the vast majority of people in this room combined.

Thus the man’s snide comment is completely ignored like it never happened, and the guy sneers, furious and agitated. Steve tries to ignore it. “So I should stay?” he asks instead.

“One of two options,” Tony replies. He glances down the line at the other players, who all look as pissed as the guy next to Steve. Then he cocks his head. “Well, the two options that you’re likely to be able to follow in a crash course. You can stay and pray the dealer busts. Now, note, his hand isn’t terribly strong either.” Steve looks at the dealer’s card. It’s a three. “He’ll have to hit up to at least seventeen.”

“What does that mean? Does that mean I should hit?”

“Not necessarily. There’s no good way to read this. It’s your call. You just have to take a chance.”

That’s just about the worst feeling, not being able to discern the best choice. Having to jump into something blindly with just faith to guide him… Steve stares at the dealer’s card and then turns to his own hand again. His indecision is crippling. Around him everyone is either staring in rapt attention or waiting none too patiently. The guy next to him is glaring daggers. He’s practically vibrating with anxiety and anger. That only heightens Steve’s own anxiety. What the hell should he do?

Tony grips his shoulder and leans nearer. “Take a chance,” he murmurs, lips so close to Steve’s ear that his breath is a tantalizing tickle.

And that’s all it takes. “Hit me,” Steve says firmly.

The dealer looks a little alarmed, and the guy next to him almost audibly rolls his eyes. Steve holds his breath, heart pounding in his ears, as the dealer pulls another card from the shoe. Down it comes, and Steve can hardly think enough to process it, to understand that the six of diamonds plus the jack of diamonds of plus the five of spades…

“Twenty-one,” says the dealer, pleasantly surprised, and the crowd around them reacts with a few cheers and a lot of murmurs.

The guy next to him swears in a hiss. “Unbelievable!”

Steve smiles. Tony’s cheering, shaking his shoulder, and the pleasant buzz in his head has him turning, has his lips nearly brushing across Tony’s because he’s still so close, and – _oh God_ – that feels _good_. Steve jerks back in shock, but Tony just cocks his eyebrow coyly, grinning like mad, so damn proud of himself. The dealer keeps dealing, but he’s not really paying attention, because he almost kissed Tony Stark.

The rest of the hand plays out. The man next to him busts; he’s furious about that. The other players complete the round, and the dealer hits and gets a nineteen and stays. Tony pats his shoulder at that, and Steve belatedly realizes the dealer could have gotten twenty-one, but he hasn’t, and Steve’s payout – his one hundred thousand dollar bet and the equally sized payout – has already been pushed his way.

“This is nonsense!” the man next to him snarls. “Stark coached him!”

The pit boss who gave Tony the chips before comes forward. “Mr. Laufeyson.”

The man’s eyes flash threateningly. He’s becoming more and more upset. “No, I’ll not tolerate this! This man obviously has no clue what he was doing! This is supposed to be a professional table with professional players!”

“Calm down,” warns the casino employee. Another guy is right behind them, and he’s dressed in a simple suit but is obviously security. Steve didn’t see him come over, didn’t notice them gathering around the already crowded table, and now they’re looming. “Your position is already precarious. I wouldn’t do anything to make–”

The player stands, and something bangs onto the blackjack table, his knee or his fist – Steve can’t tell which. It doesn’t matter. Chips rattle and scatter, and cards flutter, and security is swarming the table. Steve’s champagne spills all over him, and he’s scrambling out of his seat as men rush forward. One of them grabs the player just like that and shoves him down into the table, wrestling to get his arms behind his back. There’s more flailing, more struggling, and the ruckus goes on a moment more. Chairs fall. More chips tip and spread over the table, and everyone’s rushing to take what’s theirs. For a second, it’s total chaos.

Then the irate man pushes back and shoves and squirms until he’s let free. He gasps, shaking off the last grips on his arms, and smooths his jacket and then his black hair back. A steely glare is thrown in Steve’s direction, and then he’s stalking away.

“I do apologize, sir,” the man says to Tony (to Tony, not to Steve). “What shall I do to compensate for this disruption?”

Tony looks down at his shirt, which is also wet with spilled champagne. He frowns. “Nothing,” he grumbles. “Normally I’d cry over spilt booze, but… Bleh. Cash me out?”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony pulls Steve away from the table, which the staff is quickly setting back to its previous state. One of the employees is gathering Steve’s winnings, and Steve does another double-take at the pile of gold chips. A hand tugs gently at his arm. “You okay, gorgeous?”

“What was that about?” Steve mumbles, turning to look over his shoulder again. The irate player is blending into the dispersing crowd.

Beside him, Tony grunts. “Who knows. Some asshole being an asshole. Hey! You won!” He grins broadly, pulling Steve closer and walking him through the tables and back towards the steps. “See? Not so hard, right? Just cost you a shirt.” Tony wrinkles his nose, pulling at Steve’s sleeve. “Which, all things considering, isn’t much a price.”

That’s… rather sobering, a reminder of how he’s dressed and where he is and the fact that he’s done _nothing_ to deserve that money. It’s also the first time Tony’s really commented on how cheap his outfit is, which is probably due to the fact that he’s a little drunk too, but it stings a little. Tony’s really smiling widely now as he gets onto the lowest step of the grand staircase. Now he’s taller than Steve, and he’s oozing charm even though his expensive suit is covered in alcohol and he smells sweetly of champagne. “Come on back to the suite. I think I have a spare shirt up there.” He cocks an eyebrow again, sly and seductive. “If you want to bother with that.”

“Mr. Stark!”

Tony raises his smoldering gaze from Steve’s face, and Steve turns to find the same casino employee there. “Mr. Stark, if I might have a moment.”

Tony seems a tad annoyed. “What?”

The man hesitates, glancing between Steve and Tony a moment before settling on Steve. “Sir, did you by chance take any of your winnings?”

Tony tenses as if he thinks that’s an accusation. Steve speaks before he can. “No, I didn’t.”

That has the man turning sharply and nodding toward the security personnel behind them. For one horrific second, Steve fears that he’s done something wrong. That’s not the case, though. “When we went to settle your account, we noticed some of the sum you’ve just won is missing.”

Tony’s face hardens. “You don’t think–”

“If you’ll follow me, sir,” the man says, and the tone of his voice suggests he would appreciate cooperation. He darts another look at Steve that has Steve’s gut clenching, and all this ugliness from the past just prods at his attention. _Of course. Poor kid must be a thief._ Never mind that _he_ won it.

With Tony’s money.

Christ, what the _hell_ is he doing?

As it turns out, though, once they’re led to an office alongside the main floor near the cashier window, he’s not the target of their suspicion. A few awkward moments into it, filled with Tony very clearly showing his displeasure at this situation, security appears, dragging the irate gambler from the blackjack table by the scruff of his neck. “He didn’t make it past the staircase,” one of the bigger guys says, and they shove the man into the office.

The guy collides with a desk, and gold chips clatter down from an inside pocket in his jacket. It’s only a couple, but the security guys are bearing down on him. He grits his teeth, glaring at Steve in particular, before shrugging off the arms on him again. “Alright,” he seethes, trying to seem irate and condescending when it’s apparent he’s scared. The security guys aren’t at all convinced, standing like two huge walls behind him, and one shoves him hard. He staggers, cowed by the threat. “Alright!”

“Now, Mr. Laufeyson,” warns the man who escorted Steve and Tony here.

The man – Laufeyson – glowers, but then he’s reaching into his coat. He pulls out a handful of chips. Then another handful. Then _another_ handful. Steve can’t help but gape a little at the sheer volume of casino currency coming out of the guy’s coat. And not all of them are the gold chips from the blackjack table. He shakes his head, muddled from all the excitement and confused.

Thankfully the casino staff is willing to explain. “It’s seems you’ve been the victims of this… character,” the first man spat. “He’s been making his way across the casino, pilfering chips and coins everywhere he goes. We’ve had eyes on him for weeks, but we’ve never quite been able to catch him in the act.” He cocks his head. “Until now.”

“Yes, yes,” Laufeyson snarls. Fear flashes in his eyes again, belying his baleful tone. “Blah blah. I’m apprehended and all that nonsense. How splendid for you pea brain bastards.”

“Considering how seriously in debt you are already to our establishment, you’ve only made your situation infinitely worse,” the man declares. “We might have been willing to forgive some of it because of your father, but we certainly won’t now.”

Laufeyson sneers again, but it’s still not very convincing. “Cry me a river. The joke’s on you assholes that it took you so long.”

“Stealing from a casino,” Tony remarks. He rolls his eyes a bit. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or pissed off.”

“Oh, do be pissed off, Mr. Stark,” begs Laufeyson. “Having the blessed mock the fallen is always such a pleasure.”

Tony’s face crinkles in confusion. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you.” Laufeyson’ eyes flash. There’s a lot of pent-up emotion in his eyes, anger and frustration and desperation. Resentment. And most of all that fear. “I’d hope a couple of ne’er-do-wells could band together, but something tells me that’s not going to happen now that you’ve made such a big deal about going _respectable._ ”

Now Tony’s eyes flash. The tension ratchets up, and it seems this is way beyond a trickster scamming a casino and stealing some chips. Even if these guys don’t know each other, what’s happening appears to be some unspoken battle about a lifestyle, about family and legacy, and Steve can see Laufeyson’s pain. It’s vitriolic and throbbing, like a poorly healed wound. There’s something driving this, something beyond simply being a greedy jackass. “How much is it?”

Everyone turns to him in surprise. Frankly, Steve’s surprised himself; he really didn’t plan to ask that. “How much is what?” the casino employee asks, his tone irritated.

“How much is what he stole? Or owes you. Or whatever.”

The man continues to look dubious. “A lot,” he answers tightly.

Steve lifts his shoulders straight and tries to make himself think he has some clout here. That he possesses the power to do what he thinks should be done. “Will what I won cover it?”

Every pair of eyes in the room turns to him, and it takes all his mettle to stand under the scrutiny. “What?” Tony asks, clearly alarmed.

The casino employee balks. “You’re not suggesting…”

Laufeyson’s response ends up being the one Steve anticipated. “Oh, what the hell – who the hell are you?” he spits. “Stark’s call-boy?”

That riles Tony, and he’s stalking towards Laufeyson with surprising anger in his gaze. “He’s the one who’s apparently trying to save your ass, though God knows why.”

Laufeyson snarls. Steve realizes now that this guy is not going to simply take his good fortune and run. The man’s itching for some kind of fight, that’s clear enough. Why else would he be here stealing from a casino out on the water where there’s no easy way to escape? It seems downright stupid not to take the out, and it’s pretty damn obvious he’s not intending to. He turns his scowl back to Tony, because he knows _exactly_ where that money’s coming from. “I don’t want your goddamn _charity_.”

“Seems it’s his charity,” Tony argues, and there’s that fire again, bright and angry and very much in defense of Steve.

“ _Your_ charity,” the other man retorts. “Let’s not pretend for one second that that show back there wasn’t anything but you treating your evening’s conquest to a little fun before having him do what you brought him here to do.” Steve’s blood goes cold. He must startle or stiffen, and Laufeyson hones in on that like a hawk. “What? He didn’t tell you the terms before you signed on?”

“Watch it,” snaps one of the security guys.

Laufeyson doesn’t. He tips his head. “Of course, participating in said show might have been part of it all, huh? What he brought you to do aside from getting him off. A wholesome face, a nice piece of ass, there to convince us all that the great Tony Stark’s a changed man. Someone who suddenly _cares_ about the people he uses.”

The ire in Tony’s eyes is striking, and he’s pushing even closer, and it’s damn obvious he’s going to hit the other guy. Steve doesn’t know if that’s in his nature or if it’s because he’s been drinking or the circumstances. It’s obvious the other people in the room aren’t going to intervene. Steve’s not about to let this escalate. “No, no,” he says, turning to face Tony as he gets between them. “No, it’s… It’s alright.”

“Not really,” Tony snaps. He glares over Steve’s shoulder. “Jealous, much?”

Laufeyson laughs. “Of you? Hardly. Even if you’re trying to hide it, you’re ruined now. Chained to who you were born to be. The yoke of daddy’s dreams is choking you. I at least still have my freedom.”

Tony ignores him. He lowers his voice, grasping Steve’s arm. “Don’t. This doesn’t involve you. Or me. Let the jackass hang.”

Steve knows probably should. God, he should take that money he just won – the money the casino rescued for him – and run himself. Tony’s right; he doesn’t know this guy and has no cause to help him. This isn’t his business at all.

But, then, it is isn’t _his_ money. Winning it means nothing; he didn’t earn it, no matter what Tony says, and his mother taught him better than that. She also taught him to help people no matter what. Bullies, cowards, broken bastards like this guy… It doesn’t matter. So Steve tugs his arm away lightly, sliding his hand down to grip Tony’s in a brief squeeze. “Is it really my money?” he quietly asks.

Tony searches his eyes. “Of course it is. I meant what I said. I want you to have it for–”

“So I can do what I want with it?” Maybe this isn’t a fair thing to be doing. Tony staked him in that game for something very specific and way nobler than this. Now Steve’s questioning something very fundamental: is that money his to do with as he pleases? Or is it Tony’s, to be used by Steve exactly as Tony wishes and as long as Tony desires? It’s probably stupid, but perhaps they’re finally negotiating the fundamentals of their relationship, of that rule Steve made when he agreed to the date.

Tony seems to realize that. For a second, Steve wonders if he’s read everything wrong, if this is the moment where whatever game Tony has really been playing under all his charm and generosity ends and the truth comes out. That’s not so, though. “Of course you can.”

Steve feels like an asshole for even being relieved. He gives Tony a grateful smile and then turns to the casino personnel. “Then I want to pay off his debt.”

Laufeyson seems bound and intent upon ruining this. “Oh, this is bloody rich. The boy toy with the heart of gold.”

“You should shut your mouth,” Tony snaps, “or we walk and you can deal with them.” Laufeyson glances back at the security guards, the huge guys glowering at him. “Not sure exactly who has jurisdiction, particularly if we’ve made it out into international waters.” That sobers Laufeyson even more. He clamps down on whatever more he’s about to say, returning to saddling both Steve and Tony with an utterly hateful scowl. Tony glares right back. “Is this really what you want to do, Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Take all of it.”

“Unfortunately, sir,” the casino manager says, tapping at a tablet he’s picked up from the desk, “the amount Mr. Laufeyson owes surpasses what you have.”

Steve frowns. “Oh.”

“I’ll cover the difference,” Tony announces, taking a step back to stand at Steve’s side. Steve turns to him, but he looks firm and very no-nonsense.

The man shakes his head. “It is nearly double the amount.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Just take whatever you need to call it even and then get this guy out of our sight.”

There’s no more debate. The casino manager works at his handheld device a moment and then turns to his staff. “Take Mr. Laufeyson to the front office and keep him there until we dock. And make sure it’s very clear that he is not to set foot in this establishment ever again.”

It’s very clear that that’s not just an instruction to the guards. Laufeyson’s pale cheeks turn surprisingly ruddy with embarrassment and anger. “This is outrageous. I said I don’t want your goddamn _charity!_ ”

“And I’ll say it again: it’s _his_ charity,” Tony declares, stepping closer to Laufeyson again. “And you’re doing a shit job even pretending to be grateful. And, not for nothing, it’s probably not best to look down your nose at someone who’s richer than you are.”

Laufeyson looks like he’s about to spit in Tony’s face. “The richest man in the world. I suppose it’s your God-given right in this capitalist nightmare to look down upon everyone. To have whatever you want, be whatever you want. Remake yourself however you see fit. Well, I know what the truth is, Stark, and–”

“I meant him,” Tony returns evenly, tipping his head toward Steve. “Since he seems to have more courage, integrity, and sympathy in his little finger than you have in your whole body.”

That has Laufeyson stopping in his tirade and turning to Steve. Actually, _again,_ everyone is looking at Steve, and Steve feels a mixture of pride, alarm, and terrible embarrassment. Laufeyson is scrutinizing him like he can’t make heads or tails of the situation, but there’s a color to his eyes, a light as if he’s experiencing sudden understanding or maybe even appreciation. It’s gone in a flash, so brief and abrupt that Steve questions if it was there at all.

Then the guards are taking the man away. He goes more cooperatively this time, face locked up in a pained expression, head lowered and posture defeated. In a breath they’re gone from the office.

“Would it be too much trouble to get us a ride back to St. Petersberg?”

Tony’s question has Steve whirling. Now there’s only shock, cold and awful, and it crawls over him in an uncomfortable, icy itch. Tony only gives a tight smile, and his expression is unreadable. “I think it’s time we call it a night.”

* * *

They’re quiet the whole way back to the Seaside Manor. All through the helicopter ride from the cruise ship back to the port, through waiting for the valet to bring around the car, through the drive along the highway back north through Pinellas County… Neither of them says a word. As awkward as the tension was before, this is so much worse. This shift is also because of Tony and not in a good way. Steve sits in the passenger seat, stiff and uncertain and barely able to bring himself to so much as glance at the other man. He’s frantically wondering what the hell went wrong. Tony hasn’t given any indication of what spurned ending the night so abruptly. After all the work he went through to get Steve out with him, to get him on that ship… To woo him. He put a stop to it just like that, a _hard_ stop, and Steve’s mind is uselessly racing. It’s late, well past eleven o’clock, so maybe that’s the reason? But Tony doesn’t seem the type to care about the time. And Tony doesn’t seem the type to be bothered by other people’s insults (or problems) – at least, not outwardly – so it must have been something Steve did, which probably means Tony doesn’t approve of him giving away all that money to complete stranger, one who was a total asshole on top of that.

Honestly, Steve’s not even sure why he did it. He’s not sure what’s going on, what Tony wants now, what _he_ wants. He’s not sure of anything, not that he has been _once_ this entire night, but now it feels more like a failure than it has before. His head feels like it’s spinning, and he knows he’s a little drunk, and nothing makes sense. He’s screwed up with all his paranoia and doubt and then basically throwing that gift Tony gave him away. Whatever test this was, he’s failed it. Big time.

The apartment complex is dark and quiet when Tony pulls up to it. He parks the sports car in front of Steve’s place and turns the engine off. Then they sit in painful stillness, dragging the silence out even longer until it seems interminable. Steve wipes sweaty hands on his pants, every muscle in his body aching with tension. He finally steals a glance at Tony to find him staring out at Steve’s apartment with a distant, inscrutable look on his face. That doesn’t help him figure out how Tony’s feeling, let alone what he should do, so he sits like a damn fool a while longer. Then he sighs, gripping the handle to the car door. “I’ll, uh… Thanks for everything. Good night.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Even having expected the question, it still takes Steve by surprise. Like his expression, Tony’s tone of voice is neutral and does nothing to reveal what he’s thinking. Steve chews at the inside of his cheek nervously. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, people aren’t that good, right.” He can’t figure out if Tony’s looking for a debate or simple confirmation. “All the class arguments aside, people just aren’t. I practically handed you a fortune and–”

“I’m sorry,” Steve stammers. “Really, I am.”

“–and you just… gave it away.” Tony seems to marvel at that, shaking his head. He finally turns to Steve, and those amazing brown eyes are filled with wonder. “Who does that?” Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t respond. He’s glad for the low light of the car, because his cheeks feel like they are absolutely burning again. Tony lets his hands fall from the steering wheel. “There’s this thing most people don’t get about being rich. Everyone seems to think when you have a lot of money that you don’t care about it. It doesn’t matter if you lose two thousand or twenty thousand or two hundred thousand. You have so much, so it’s really nothing in comparison. You can afford to let it go. You can afford _not_ to care.” He shakes his head. “And that’s true, okay, if you’re talking about the mathematics of it all, but it’s not at the same time because money still matters. It just doesn’t mean the same thing. It’s not being rich and owning the fancy yacht and cars and dressing in expensive clothes and having the mansion. It’s not having all that power. It’s the fact that _other_ people find that powerful, that the money _means_ something to them. Money only has value if other people want it.”

“You think I don’t want money?” Steve asks.

“Not as much as you want to do the right thing,” replies Tony. “That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? That guy screwed up, and you felt bad, and you wanted to help.”

That’s true enough. Steve thinks about it for a moment, remembering the harried look in Laufeyson’s eyes, the hints of distress and terror he thought he saw. “He seemed afraid. Figured there was a reason he was doing something so stupid, maybe a good reason, and maybe… Maybe he just needed a way out.”

“Maybe you were just enabling him. Or validating his behavior.”

Steve considers that. “Maybe. But sometimes people need validation.”

“Of their bad habits?”

“Of the emotions underlying them,” Steve says. “Compassion can go a long way, particular if someone’s in pain and trying hard to hide it.”

Tony’s expression returns to being impassive, and he goes back to staring out at the Seaside Manor where most of the apartments are dark and quiet with the late hour. Steve expects him to say something about how naïve that is, naïve and foolhardy and the sort of crap by which a Boy Scout lives his life. He doesn’t, though. “You know what else it means.” Tony turns, and now there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “It means I really can’t buy you.”

Yet again, as the latest in a long parade of opportunities, Steve should probably be insulted, but he’s not. “You were really trying to?”

“Not on purpose, but I can see how you thought that. And I can see how maybe I was, deep down. Most of the time… That’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s what people do care about.”

Steve digests that admission for a second and wonders at the life Tony leads, where maybe the currency of love is actual currency. Where spending egregious amounts of money equates to caring. That’s rather sad, when Steve thinks about it. “You don’t have to, you know,” he finally says. “Buy me. I don’t want you to.”

“I’m seeing that more now. It’s not just the class thing. It’s not just a rule, either. It’s…” Tony’s little grin turns rueful. “It’s not who you are.” Steve smiles back. “Maybe that’s what drew me to you. Like you not knowing me, you know? You’re not like what I’ve known. And you don’t lie.”

Steve’s stomach drops like a rock. His heart stops in his chest, and he can barely think – barely breathe – as Tony leans back in his seat with a crinkle of leather and a chuckle. “God, I’m so damn used to people lying to me. I never even cared before, because that was what it was about. Partying and hook-ups and all that bullshit. But now… What?”

Obviously his dismay is all over his face. Steve grimaces and turns to look out the window. He’s cornered, trapped, pretty literally even though he supposes he can just open that door and run. His fingers are still on the handle. He can escape this.

But… _Would it be so bad?_ There’s that question again. This time he can’t dismiss it. Would it be wrong? Is it fundamentally bad not to want to live like this? Outside it’s so dark, and the rows of apartments seem endless. Steve stares. He hasn’t been honest with anyone in so long, not anyone outside of Bucky and maybe Natasha. Even then, he’s never told the whole story all the way through. All this weight he’s always carrying… Pressing down on him. Driving him. Crushing him. Would it be so wrong to just _drop_ it for a moment?

What’s the worst that could happen?

“I haven’t…” The words die in his throat. He falters, looks down, nearly stops because every inch of his body is rebelling against what he’s doing. The shadows spin, and his heart’s pounding, and maybe… _No._ “I haven’t been all that honest.”

He can feel Tony’s surprise and disappointment like it’s a tangible thing. “Oh.”

“Not about – I mean… Not about wanting to be with you. Not about that! Or not knowing what I’m doing. Or being alone. I’m not with anyone else.” Tony smiles a little at that, and his relief is potent, too, and Steve feels stupid and ridiculous. “I just… Damn it. I shouldn’t tell you this.” _What the hell are you doing?_

Tony’s staring. The weight of his gaze feels astronomical. “The personal stuff?”

Exhaling a huge breath, Steve nods. The quiet comes back then, and he’s just reeling in purgatory, fettered by indecision. He’s come this far, but going all the way? _Take a chance._ “I feel like I owe you an explanation for why I’ve been acting so weird. I was pretty rude to you. You said–”

“You haven’t been rude,” Tony argues. “Weird, definitely. Totally weird. Standoffish. A little exasperating. Surprising, too. But rude? Nope.” Steve shakes his head, grimacing even more. “What? You know, as someone who gets judged all the time, I put a lot of stock in open mindedness. So despite not doing the personal stuff too well, which I will admit again in the name of full disclosure, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to freak out, whatever you’ve got all bottled up in that frankly ridiculously hot body.”

Steve’s too flustered to even notice the compliment. _Full disclosure._ He takes a deep breath, turning and finally looking Tony in the eye. That intelligence is staring at him, analyzing, curious and sharp and waiting. _Relax._ “It has to do with Maggie’s mother.”

Tony tries to keep his expression open, but there’s a glint of anticipation in his gaze. He’s curious. “Yeah?” he prompts after a beat.

Steve holds his breath, looking out the windshield at his dark, empty apartment. He can see Bucky and Natasha’s place further down from his. The lights are off, and they’re probably all asleep. He can picture Maggie on the little cot they bring out when she stays over, dressed in the cotton pajama set Natasha bought her with her pink blanket she likes. She probably fell asleep with the tablet. Bucky would let her do that, let her play to her heart’s content. Steve can see her now, brown hair fanned around her on the pillow, long lashes pressed to cherubic cheeks, lips parted in a blissful little smile… The spitting image of Peggy.

Inexplicably that gives him courage. He finally breathes. “I, uh… I didn’t go to art school after graduation because I didn’t have the money. That’s true. But that wasn’t the only reason. Bucky… He joined the army, and he was kind of all I had. My mom just died, and I don’t have any other family, and the thought of losing him… I decided to go with him.”

“You were in the army?” Tony asks, clearly shocked. Steve nods. Tony leans back in his seat more. “Huh. Guess that explains…” He gestures at Steve’s physique.

Steve offers a faint smile. “We were deployed to Iraq. Did our duty for most of the tour. It was alright. Felt like I had a family for a bit, anyway. Felt like I was doing something useful. One day towards the end our unit came into a fairly big village north of Baghdad, and we were supposed to supply humanitarian aid. As it turns out, the UK was already there. They weren’t supposed to be to our understanding, and we ended up cooling our heels a while so the brass could sort it out. Well, during all this confusion, the town gets ambushed. It’s a disaster, and no one knows what the hell’s going on. The Brits are pinned down. Civilians are everywhere, and people are running, screaming… Commands wants us out, but we can’t just leave, and everything’s going to hell, and I just went in and fought my way through the insurgents and Bucky and the rest of our team followed and we pushed them back. We got the people out. Got the British free from where they were trapped. Saved their lives. It was stupid and dangerous, but…” He shrugs. “I had to do the right thing.”

The memories press close. The sand and rock. Gunfire and screaming and the loud bangs of heavy artillery. Panic. They’ve been dulled by time and life. Because of that, they never bother him much, not like he knows they do Bucky and other vets. He’s been lucky to have been spared, and he knows Maggie has been a huge part of why. He clears his throat. “Anyway, it didn’t seem like much at the time, just what we were there to do, but the brass thought it was worth more than that. Worth the Medal of Honor.”

“You… won the Medal of Honor?” Tony asks in a small, incredulous voice.

Steve nods. “Got it inside in a case in my room.”

Amazed, Tony gawks. “Okay. Wow. Didn’t see this coming either.”

“Don’t make a big deal about it. It’s really not anything.”

“Um… Yeah, it kinda is? Holy shit. You’re, like, a war hero.”

Steve flushes and looks away. “This is why I don’t tell people. I don’t like the attention. Plus it’s practically a lifetime ago.”

“Yeah, but… Huh. I have to confess that for a split second back when we met, I was going to have my people research you. You know, draw up one of those dossier things?” At that, Steve scowls, and Tony raises his hand in surrender. “For a split second.”

That feels awful and invasive, and the urge to talk about this dries up. That probably shows on his face too, because Tony immediately looks utterly horrified and regretful. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I, um… Yeah, this is why I suck at the personal stuff. You know, investigating people… It’s just kind of what rich people do? Everyone I deal with, business people and associates and clients and… I’m not redeeming myself, am I.”

Steve doesn’t answer at first. Then he sighs. “But you didn’t look me up.”

“No. Not at all. I swear. I didn’t do it, and I’m glad I didn’t.” Tony’s searching his face, likely hunting for some sign he’s being believed and forgiven. He tries for a smile. “Because that’s kinda what a rich asshole would do.”

Steve has to smile back. “Well, anyway, seeing as how we rescued a bunch of British soldiers, the British government decided to honor us – me – in London, which was a pretty big deal. That’s where I…” His voice falters for a moment, but he manages to go on. “That’s where I met Maggie’s mother.”

It’s quiet again. The pain that’s always inside… It swells. He doesn’t know why he didn’t anticipate that, that actually _talking_ about this is going to hurt. He can stop now, give up, run. His hand is still on the door. Yet again, though, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know when he turned into this coward, but he doesn’t want to be that anymore. He finally drops his hand from the car door and starts to speak. “She was… I never really believed in love at first sight. Had to be a bunch of nonsense, because the world just doesn’t work that way. You can’t love someone you don’t even know, can’t trust someone you just met, can’t put your faith in something like that… In a look and a smile and a feeling. It’s crazy, but it’s… magical.” He can picture this, too, that vivid memory of his producing the image of her standing across the ballroom at the reception, her brown hair clipped back in lush waves, red lips pressed into a tense line, brown eyes sparking in the golden lights. The beautiful blue dress she wore. The way her gaze caught his, and the way it stayed with him. The way her frown slipped away, turning into a tentative grin.

Tony’s voice pulls him from his daydream. “Who was she?” he asks softly.

“Lady Margaret Carter,” Steve replies after a moment. He turns to Tony. “Peggy.”

Another beat of silence passes before Tony questions him. “I take it from the title that she’s someone important across the pond.”

Steve takes another deep breath. “She was the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.”

Tony blinks in surprise. “You mean… royalty?”

“Not exactly? I never really understood what their relationship is to the Queen. If they have one at all. I don’t know. They’re very powerful and very wealthy. Members of the House of Lords. I’m pretty sure her mother is a lady in waiting, too. Whatever a lady in waiting does.”

Tony’s quiet again, probably trying to understand what he just heard. Steve can hardly blame him. This has certainly and suddenly gone down a strange path. Sometimes, when he really looks back on it and thinks about it, he’s still shocked it actually happened. There are a million questions Tony can probably ask now, building from this tidbit of information. But the one he does ask is probably the most important. “Is she dead?” He winces a bit. “You said ‘she was’. She _was_ their daughter.”

The pain stabs sharply, and Steve draws in a deep breath to get through it. He drops his gaze and nods. The quiet that comes now is tense, rife with pain. Tony’s watching him, waiting. Prompting. “What happened?”

“I took leave right after the ceremony, and we just sort of… ran off. Like in a movie or something. She was… God, she was amazing. So smart. So sassy and strong and beautiful. Best few days of my life. I’ve never felt like that, never felt so good and so much like I was where I was supposed to be. So wanted. We decided then and there to be together. It was hard to do it because she was busy with her life, and I hadn’t finished my tour yet, so it was a lot of long-distance letters and calls. Skyping. It worked. We lived on this promise that when I finished with my service, we’d get married. She so _desperately_ wanted that, to get married and it seemed so simple, so easy and possible, and I kept thinking I was dreaming, you know, and that one day I’d just wake up and find out none of it was real.”

Steve swallows the rock in his throat. “That day came. When it came time to re-enlist, I decided I wouldn’t. The army wanted me bad, but I wanted to be with her so much more, and she wanted me, so I told Bucky I was going to her. He went back and I left and spent everything I had to buy a ring and come to England.” He lifts his head and lets out a long breath. “She was there with her chauffeur to collect me at the airport. That was the first time it really dawned on me that she had a chauffeur. And we drove off in a Rolls Royce. She _had_ a Rolls Royce. And she took me to where she lived. It was a _castle_ , filled with tapestries and chandeliers and drawing rooms and huge hallways and all this history and heritage and money, so much _money._ It _really_ hadn’t dawned on me that she was part of this. I mean, I knew who she was, but it was all abstract and it never mattered. When we were together, we were just two people in love. Right then, though, seeing what her world really was… I knew this wasn’t that simple. Or easy. And we weren’t just two people. She was part of an old, powerful British family, and I was a nobody from Brooklyn with nothing more than the few clothes I’d packed and the ring I bought her.”

Tony waits a moment before saying, “At the risk of making this sound cliché, I take it her family was less than thrilled.”

“It was cliché. And they _hated_ me. Originally she told me to come to her so we could announce our engagement, and I think some part of her really hoped that would happen, but in reality… It was so she could beg her parents to accept me. The first dinner they were cordial enough. Cold and kind of condescending but alright. Made us think we could maybe get away with their acceptance if we couldn’t have their blessing.” On the tail of the pain comes this dark anger, the same anger he always feels when he thinks about that trip. “Obviously that was not the case. When I was still around the next day, all attempts at being at least tolerant pretty much went up in smoke. For the next couple days, as Peggy tried to include me in the family’s life, they ignored me. Insulted me. Demeaned me. Mind you, they were surprisingly restrained about it. At first, anyway. I didn’t know how to act or what to say, and there were all these unspoken rules about everything, so just about every second I was making a fool of myself. That made it easy for them. _Everything_ they said to me was backhanded. And I could tell right away that Peggy, who was this _amazing_ fire, who didn’t take shit from anyone… She was terrified of them. Submissive. Like they controlled her. It was terrifying.”

“I can imagine,” Tony softly laments, looking away himself.

“Needless to say, when I was still around a couple nights later, when I hadn’t responded to their oh-so subtle message, they kicked me out of the house, hiding all their hate with their insufferable politeness. Her mother in particular…” Steve clenches his teeth and shakes his head. “She’s a real piece of work. Cruel. Controlling. Vindictive. She basically told me, point blank, that Peggy was a lady in the British peerage, that she was destined to continue the greatness of their bloodline, and she could therefore not be allowed to ‘breed’ with a nobody. A nobody would sully not just her name but the family’s pedigree. It was like something out of some horrible Victorian romance novel. I tried to argue – for God’s sake, Peggy was a grown woman, and she deserved to make her own choices, and what they were doing was disgusting and amoral and _wrong_ , but they didn’t even let me talk. Her older brother was about as nasty as the mother. He was the one who did most the dirty work, telling me that I couldn’t possibly understand how important their lives were, that they’re wealthy business owners and intellectuals, that they serve the royal family, the United Kingdom, the Commonwealth… He went on and on about how they had to uphold that image, that Peggy was _promised_ to that cause. And I could _never_ be a part of that.” He sighs a shaky breath. “In the end, they had their servants escort me from the estate.”

“Jesus,” Tony whispers.

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. Just thinking about it all brings back the humiliation, the frustration, the horror that these people could be like that. That they could treat their own daughter like an asset, a tool to secure a legacy that _clearly_ did not need securing. “As bad as it was for me, it was much worse for her. She hated it all. I knew that before I found out the whole truth of it. She told me lots of times how much the life she lived – parties and state functions and balls and having a mind and not being allowed to use it and being treated as nothing more than a beautiful face to attract the right kind of suitor… How much she despised it. It was like a cage, and she was trying to break free, and I know now she saw me as a way to do it. I don’t begrudge her that at all. I loved her. I wish – God, I _wish_ I could have _done_ more. I ended up hanging around in a hotel in one of the nearby villages for a few days, trying to figure out a way back in and failing, trying just to see her… Begging at the gate to the estate for just a chance to say goodbye. They never gave me anything, and I ran out of money, so I gave up and went back to Brooklyn.”

Again Tony pauses. Steve doesn’t know if he’s waiting for him to continue on his own or trying to come up with something to say. “But you saw her again obviously.”

 _Obviously._ “It’s not what you think,” Steve softly declares. “After all that, I tried to rebuild my life. Got a job doing artwork for an ad agency. Started saving money. I knew it was a longshot, but I kept thinking if I could make something of myself, improve my prospects… Maybe her family would give me a chance. It was a longshot, and I don’t think I ever really believed it would work, but hope’s not logical.”

“No,” Tony agrees.

“Anyway, she shows up at my apartment about a year later.” Steve takes a deep breath because this part – _this –_ is the truth that scares him so much, that has driven him in everything he’s done for the last five years, that has made him who he is today. He can barely make himself say it. “And she’s eight months pregnant.”

It takes Tony a moment to process that, a godawful eternity of uncertain silence. Even as smart as he is, he has to do the math and read between the lines and put the pieces together. And when he does… “You’re not Maggie’s father.”

There. It’s out in the open now. It’s exposed and bare and brutal and Steve’s never felt so vulnerable. “No.”

Out of the corner of Steve’s eye, he sees Tony look away. His expression crinkles in confusion. “Then who is?”

“I don’t know. Peggy never said. She just… She was there, and she was broken but so determined. She said she ran from them, and she wanted to be with me, that she loved me, and they weren’t going to stop that. They weren’t going to own her anymore. She never wanted to go back. She _never_ talked about what happened, and I never asked.”

“Jesus,” Tony whispers again. He shakes his head, clearly reeling a bit with the story. “Then what?”

“Of course I took her in, took care of her. For a few weeks, everything was… I don’t know how to describe it. Wonderful but so tense. She seemed completely the same but really different. I’d never seen her living without all the glamor and the money and power. Even when we went on that trip, she was paying for it. It was extravagant. This? This was her living in my old sweatshirts and eating Easy Mac and watching cable that my neighbor was letting me steal. She came with nothing. And she didn’t want to go to any doctors for the baby. We went out, but I could always tell she was nervous. She was scared it’d get back to her parents.”

Steve hauls in another breath. The rush of emotion is stronger than he anticipated, and he looks down. He forces himself to go on. “The day Maggie was born… Looking back on it, I knew something wasn’t right. Peggy didn’t look right. Things didn’t _feel_ right. But it’s one of those hindsight-is-twenty-twenty things. A few days before… While I was out getting us dinner – I splurged on Chinese – she found the engagement ring I brought to England. And she was wearing it when I got back. We decided then and there that we’d get married and move somewhere else right after the baby was born. Move some place where no one could find us. Florida. She always wanted to come here. She loved the beach, loved the heat. Loved the water.” He smiles and then closes his eyes. “That morning the ring was so tight on her finger I thought it’d break. Her ankles were swollen. She didn’t _look right._ I didn’t think… She started having contractions, and she kept saying she could just have the baby at the apartment, and I thought that was crazy, but I didn’t want to panic or make her upset. But she started getting so confused about things, about where she was. She was delirious, and then she had this seizure, and I called 911.”

The rest comes fast. It’s going to hurt the most. He hasn’t thought about it in years, and he says the words quickly, like doing that will make them meaningless. “They said it was eclampsia. It can come on fast, but if she’d been going to a doctor, they might have caught it earlier. They did an emergency c-section, and the baby was fine, but Peggy… She didn’t…”

“Hey.” There’s a firm grip on his hand where he’s apparently been crushing his knee. Tony squeezes there. “That’s not your fault.”

“Debatable,” Steve whispers before biting his lip. “It happened so fast, and I didn’t even know it was so bad. They came out after the c-section and told me and I just…”

It’s quiet yet again. Steve exhales again, pushing it all back down. These memories… They’re in his nightmares, a plague to his thoughts, a trauma that hasn’t spared him. The white hospital corridor. The feel of wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. The uncomfortable plastic chairs, not that he sat in them much with all the pacing. The squeak of the doctor’s sneakers on the shiny, tile floor as he comes closer. The _look_ in his eyes. The feeling of the floor falling out, the ceiling coming down, his body tumbling down only he’s still standing and the doctor’s still talking and somewhere there’s a baby crying…

Tony’s still holding his hand. His thumb sweeps over Steve’s knuckles. “You okay?”

Steve jerks out of his memories and emotions again. “Yeah.” He clears his throat, trying to reclaim his composure. “Well, the rest is just… a mess, I guess. The hospital thinks she’s my fiancé, which she is – was. And they think the baby’s mine. I don’t know what to do. Right before, when we were talking about getting married and running away, she told me that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted me to have the baby. She wanted me to take care of her. The baby would have a good life with me, she said. Not sure how that’s turning out.”

Tony frowns. “Steve–”

“And as I held her right after Peggy died, just minutes after… I don’t know. I didn’t know what the right thing was. My head was telling me one thing, but my heart…” Looking down on Maggie’s tiny face. Having her brand new fingers curl around his. Watching her sleep. Steve shakes his head. “I tried for days to get in contact with her family. I called. I emailed. I wrote letters. I tried the British Consulate. I tried talking to social workers and the nurses and I just… I didn’t know who the real father was, and no one seemed to question at all that the baby was mine. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought about going to a lawyer or child protective services, but then I remembered what Peggy wanted, and I… When I was looking through her bag for some way to contact her family, I found the paperwork for a New York State birth certificate. She’d already filled it out and put my name in the spot for the baby’s father and signed it. And dated it. _Weeks_ before she even came to New York. This was really what she wanted. I didn’t know what to do with that. I thought about destroying it, but I didn’t. And then when the hospital staff came when they were sending the baby home – I'd been dodging them because they wanted me to fill out the paperwork – I just did it. I put Maggie’s name on there, signed everything, and that was that.”

Tony spends another moment processing that. “And you took her home.”

Steve nods. “Right after I did, we had the funeral. No one came except me and the baby, which was… I can’t describe it. The last of the money I had went to paying for it and a few supplies for Maggie. For a few months after that, I still tried to get a hold of people, but nothing I did worked. Her parents never returned any call I made to any place even remotely associated with them in England. The British Consulate said they’d made contact with them, at least to tell them their daughter had died, but if there was ever any response, it never got to me. Weeks go by, and I just lingered, not knowing what to do. I mean, I’d claimed the baby, but none of it seemed right, so I waited and just kind of drifted aimlessly. Then I got my head out of my ass and did what Peggy asked me to do: I ran to Florida and started over.” He gives a wry smile. “Me and Maggie have been hanging out here ever since.”

Tony nods slowly. “And she knows?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I mean, she knows I’m not her real father. She knows her mom died. I couldn’t lie to her about any of that. That’s not right.”

Tony considers that. “No, I suppose it’s not.” He pauses. “But no one else knows.”

“Except for Bucky.” Steve offers a small, crooked smile. “And you now.”

Tony doesn’t comment on that. He looks troubled. “And you’re just… raising her here. In hiding. By yourself.” He presses his lips together. “Hence your weirdness around, well, everyone.” Steve gives a half-hearted shrug. He worries for a second that Tony’s going to question the legality of it all. Lord knows he has over the years. He’ll be lying if he says being scared of the truth wasn’t a driving reason behind never contacting a lawyer. Peggy told him to take the baby. Peggy put his name on the birth certificate. He tried to get a hold of Maggie’s likely guardians to no avail. What was he supposed to do? Is it even wrong, what he did? “They’ve never tried to contact you?”

He lifts a shoulder again and heaves a longer sigh, more relieved at having gotten all of that out than over the answer. “Nope.”

“Wow… That’s… I thought my parents were assholes.”

After all this heaviness, that makes Steve laugh. He doesn’t know why. He realizes too that Tony’s still holding his hand, still stroking gently with his thumb. That’s comforting. “So that’s it,” he finally says as the silence edges towards uncomfortable. “That’s my baggage.” He bites the inside of his cheek worriedly. “Nice, huh.”

Tony ignores that. “At least now I get why you and rich people don’t get along. I just want to go on record saying that those people were such unimaginable asshats because they’re British. We American rich folk are way, way less snooty about how rich we are.” Steve doesn’t respond, isn’t even really listening. He’s thinking about how nice it is to have Tony touch him. “That’s a joke, by the way.”

“Yeah, sorry. Sorry.”

“No.” Tony follows where Steve’s been looking to where their hands are woven together on Steve’s knee. “I’m… I’m really sorry.”

It’s clear he’s talking about what Steve went through, that he’s offering sympathy again for this nightmare Steve lived. “Thanks,” Steve murmurs, genuinely touched.

It’s quiet a moment. Then Tony asks, “Do you ever regret it? Taking on a baby that’s not your own… That’s rough.”

“Yeah. But I don’t. Regret it, that is.”

“No, I wouldn’t think you would,” Tony muses.

“She doesn’t have to be mine for me to love her,” Steve says simply. “I thought about it, about finding someone else to take her. I was in way over my head, and I knew it. Every day I’d say, ‘today’s the day. I’m taking her to child services.’ Or, ‘today’s the day. I’m calling a lawyer to help me get her home.’ But then every day she’d do something… so unbelievably cool. She was funny. She was angry and she was happy and she was sad. She was cute. She was growing. And she was… She was Peggy. She was having Peggy close and keeping Peggy with me and doing just this one thing to honor what Peggy wanted.” He shakes his head, staring out at his little, rundown, dark apartment. “How could I regret that?”

All the sudden Tony’s leaning over, and then his lips brush against Steve’s and the whole world just stops. It’s funny, because Steve thinks he should be shocked. He thinks he should pull away. He thinks that he _should_ think this is wrong for _so many reasons._ But none of that happens. He just lingers in this barest of touches, and Tony lingers too, and it doesn’t seem like anything can possibly follow.

But it does. Tony kisses him harder, and it’s… wild. Different. Tony kisses nothing like Peggy ever did, being a man aside. There was always something restrained and otherworldly about Peggy, something noble, something that intrinsically made Steve question his worth when she touched him. That doesn’t happen here. Tony’s lips are rougher, the bristle of his goatee scratchy and exciting, and it’s so surprisingly _good_ that Steve’s reaching for him, melting into him, seeking more, _wanting–_

“I’m sorry,” Tony says with a gasp after pulling back. “Sorry, sorry! I shouldn’t be pushing you.”

“No,” Steve replies, breathless himself and honestly disappointed. He feels lightheaded, like the world’s been shifted around him. “No, it’s fine. It really is.”

“I just…” Tony’s cheeks actually darken with a blush. It’s hard to see in the shadows, even harder to believe, but it’s there. “I just really like you.”

That makes the world move again, change all around him, and Steve’s stomach is doing flip-flops and not just from the shift from all that pain to this giddy pleasure. “I really like you, too.”

Tony nods, staring at the car’s darkened dash speechlessly. “Getting the feeling that you can teach me a thing or two about being a good person,” he finally admits, trying to hide his own reaction.

“Think you’re a pretty good person already,” Steve replies.

Tony grins, and this joy at making him happy bursts through Steve, and they’re both smiling and staring at each other. It feels kind of stupid and silly, like two teenagers on a date or something, but it’s really nice, too. That feeling of innocent enjoyment, of infatuation, of relaxation. That’s really what it is. _Relaxing_. At long last, all the tension between them releases, vanishes like it was never there at all, and finally Steve can breathe. Then he asks, “You want to come in for a bit?”

Surprised, Tony tips his head. “Come in… to your place?”

Steve’s a bit surprised to be offering it himself. “As long as you don’t mind seeing how the common folk live.”

That’s said teasingly. It takes Tony a second to realize that, and then he grins. “Sure.”

At that, they’re getting out of the car. Tony locks it with a touch of his hand to the door, and they walk silently across the yard to the sidewalk and then to the apartment. Steve fumbles in his pocket for a moment for his key before opening the door. He gets the hall light on, and Tony comes inside, shutting the door behind them.

The apartment is the way Steve left it: small, lackluster, filled with old furniture and second-hand décor, and somewhat messy. He somehow forgot how depressing it is, but when he turns to Tony, there’s no judgment on his face. “Quaint,” he declares. “And cool. Quaint is cool.” He takes about two steps and ends up in the kitchen. “You have coffee?”

All the sudden, something comes over Steve, and he just can’t stop himself. He’s following, taking Tony’s arm gently but insistently, and kissing him again. The thought that this isn’t smart or right doesn’t even come this time. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the rush from the date earlier or finally telling _someone_ the truth that’s so liberating. Maybe it’s just Tony, looking so beautiful in the dim light.

Maybe it doesn’t matter why. Tony immediately kisses back, and if it was tentative and tame before, this is anything but. He’s hungry, ravenous, kissing hard and pulling at Steve’s shirt. Steve staggers as that hint of excitement explodes into something hot and vibrant and wonderful. He wraps his arms around Tony, opening his mouth and letting Tony have, letting him do anything. They end up banging into the old, cheap dinette table, and the sound of things rattling has them breaking apart.

In the dark, Tony’s eyes shine. He’s breathing hard. “You sure about this?” he gasps. He sets his hands to Steve’s heaving chest, rubbing his thumb across the buttons of his shirt. Steve’s heart is pounding beneath his fingertips, and he’s sure Tony can feel it. “I mean, I’m sure. I’m down with anything and everything. But it breaks about every rule you started with.”

Steve doesn’t care. He can’t make himself care about anything right now. It’s irresponsible, selfish, the culmination of this crazy ride up to this point. He’s a little drunk, a lot euphoric from it all, feeling so not like himself. He’s walking that edge again, and he wants to jump in just to see what’s on the other side. He wants everything Tony’s offering.

So he takes the chance. He kisses Tony frantically, unable to tolerate any further separation between them. Then it’s a clumsy stumble through the apartment to his bedroom, where the bedding is still a mess from Maggie and Bucky playing earlier, where her toys are on the floor. They stagger past them. Steve all but falls onto the bed. He looks up at Tony, every nerve in his body ringing with need. The enormity of what he thinks they’re about to do is there in the back of his mind. “I – I still have no idea what I’m doing,” he confesses.

Tony smiles and cups his face. “And you’re still worrying too much.” He tips Steve’s chin upward and takes his lips in a searing kiss. Fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt again, this time with far more purpose. Steve moans into Tony’s mouth the second Tony touches his bare skin. Tony grins against his lips, and his eyes shine with desire. “Just trust me, gorgeous.”

Steve does. He finally stops worrying.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I am so sorry about how long it's been. Thanks so much for waiting. I really hope everyone is safe and keeping sane during these crazy times!

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s not quite sure what happened. It’s been a long, _long_ time since he’s slept this deeply, since he hasn’t jerked awake with a head full of worries. His ascent to awareness isn’t rushed or harried or begrudging because of the troubles he knows await him there, either. He takes his time coming to, lingers, lets himself simply _not_ for a little while longer.

It’s really, _really_ nice.

But even without the grip of the world beyond dragging him upward, he eventually starts to come around. When he does, it takes what feels like a very long time for him to really take note of things. He’s sprawled on his stomach in his bed, which _of course_ he’s in his bed because where else can he be, but something doesn’t seem right. He’s naked, which is weird as hell, because he never sleeps that way since Maggie comes in with him all the time. His head aches. The light streaming through the blinds on his crud-crusted bedroom window is way too bright. And he feels strange. Something’s off, because he feels _good_ , loose and relaxed and well-rested and carefree, and he can’t remember the last time he’s felt any of those things. He stretches, turns away from the sun, and reaches over across the bedding.

To find the other side cold and empty. That’s not right. His head’s stuffed with wool for how well he can think and remember, but he’s pretty sure – no, he’s absolutely sure…

_Tony._

Steve sucks in a short breath, sitting up as a cold jolt of horror dashes away the final remnants of sleep. Finally the events of the night before come rushing back, and he kneels there, swathed in the sheets that smell like Tony because _he slept with Tony Stark_. He feels his eyes go wide, feels a cold sweat prickle his skin, and he sags onto his heels. “Holy shit,” he breathes. The bombardment of memories is swift now, as if it’s been finally freed from the muzzy mess in his head. _God._ The date they had. The dinner cruise. Everything he had to drink – the wine and liquor and champagne. He hasn’t been drunk in _years_. How could he have been so stupid? And the poker game. The jerk who tried to steal from them and all the drama from that. Coming back to his apartment, and telling Tony not just the truth, but _everything._ His whole story, from the army to meeting Peggy and her awful parents to Maggie’s birth and all the legal implications of what he did when he took her. Unloading all of his secrets, these things he’s kept to himself, kept _safe,_ for years. He did that in a matter of a few minutes, like it’s nothing, like his future and, more importantly, Maggie’s future isn’t completely intertwined with keeping the truth protected.

And then, _and then,_ because that’s not bad enough, he had sex with Tony. It wasn’t Tony seducing him, no matter how he wants to think about it that way now to find some excuse for his behavior. There isn’t any. _He_ invited Tony in. _He_ kissed Tony. _He_ told Tony he wanted it. He thinks about it now, how Tony kissed him and touched him, what it was like to be with another guy, to be with someone like Tony Stark… It was nothing like he’s ever imagined. Not that he has a whole lot of basis to imagine anything, but Tony… Well, he’s (unsurprisingly, given his reputation) a very good lover. He made Steve feel things he didn’t know he could feel. He took Steve right out of his head, out of all his nervousness and fear and doubt. Doing something like that with anyone new, let alone with another man, is beyond terror-inducing for him, but Tony never let Steve’s misgivings and worries influence or interfere with the moment. He’s skilled for sure, but he’s also perceptive and kind and considerate. He never rushed, never pushed, never demanded. He led and gently encouraged, and he made sure Steve was comfortable and cared for the entire time. It seems strange, with the string of highly publicized hook-ups and heartbreaks Tony has left in his wake, that he could be so, well… _tender._

But he was. The memories, even as hazy as they are with sleep and that haze of being hung-over, are like a long, sweet kiss, and Steve feels a blush burning his cheeks. He grits his teeth, though, and shakes them away. Even still, even with how wonderful Tony was last night, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s not here now. Steve glances at the clock next to the bed to find that it’s past nine. Tony doesn’t strike him as a morning person, so the fact that he’s gone… It can only really mean one thing.

_He got what he wanted and he left._

He feels sick to his stomach. God, how could he have been so _stupid_? Last night, Tony warned him that he was breaking all his rules, _every single one of them_. The person he was afraid would take advantage of him _warned_ him, and he didn’t listen. He didn’t care. He didn’t think about it for a second, just barreled head long into _everything_ he didn’t want. Not rushing into anything? With another guy? With Tony in particular? All that was promptly ignored. Equal footing? Nope. Maybe that’s an impossible expectation. It was last night, with all that money and influence thrust in Steve’s face, and it is now, too. Tony pretty much embodies the power imbalance, particularly by bailing out first thing this morning.

And putting Maggie first… Steve didn’t think for a second about the consequences to her. He jeopardized everything, her life and her security, for a good time with the first person in forever who looked at him twice. He sits there now, aching and angry and hating himself, because _of course_ this would be how it ends. And the worst part is… He can’t quite make himself let it all go, and he can’t quite convince himself that risking it all wasn’t worth it.

What in the world is wrong with him?

Steve heaves a sigh and finally makes himself move. He slides off his bed and finds his boxers. Then he grabs his jeans. He needs to get going, to forget all this. He needs to get Maggie from Bucky’s. Bucky will grill him and read him the riot act for even thinking about dating someone like Tony Stark probably in equal measure, and Steve’s feeling shitty enough about that as is. He checks the clock again, only this time he notices the envelope on the nightstand. That’s not something he put there. Curious, he reaches over and takes it. “Steve,” he murmurs, reading the messy scrawl on the front. “For the boat.” He tips his head back and closes his eyes. _Shit._

It’s payment for services rendered.

God, how could he have been so goddamn _stupid_?

Disgusted, Steve tosses the envelope back to the table. Then he fishes a t-shirt out of the pile of clothes on floor and puts it on. He’ll go get Maggie, and then… He doesn’t know. He can’t think. Maybe he deserves to have Bucky chew him out over this. He definitely deserves to feel as low and used and pathetic as he does right now. This is bringing it all back, the same godawful sense of utter worthlessness he felt when Peggy’s family threw him out like he was nothing more than trash that was tracked into their foyer. Maybe rich people really are all the same and he’s just been too stupid to see it.

But that’s not true. It takes him a second, as he nearly barrels in a blind stupor out of his bedroom and nearly steps all over some Legos left in the middle of the hallway, to realize he’s really wrong. He hears a voice he immediately recognizes – _Maggie –_ and wonders what she’s doing here. This panic overtakes him, because she can’t be back yet, and there’s another voice answering her, low and not as familiar. Steve stumbles into the living area only to find her sitting on the couch. Not on the couch. She’s sitting on Tony, on _Tony,_ her long legs with their bruises and dirty feet dangling over his as he holds her new tablet. Their heads are pressed together, and the both of them are intently staring at the device. She’s touching the screen, and they are so totally engrossed in whatever he’s showing her that they don’t notice Steve at first.

Then Tony does. His hair’s all mussed, and he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes (at least the slacks and his dress shirt, which is loose and rumpled). He grins, and it’s positively devious. “Morning.”

Steve just stares at them, shocked. Then he shakes his head. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He’s talking to Maggie, but Tony’s the one who answers. “Huh. I didn’t take you for kicking your date out in the morning.”

Steve burns red. He can feel it. And Maggie shakes her head, glaring at him. “You can’t kick Tony out!”

“I’m not – I mean–” He sighs, flustered that she’s seeing him the morning after _he slept with his date_ , and puts his hands on his hips. “ _You_ are not supposed to be here! Bucky has you all morning. That’s what he told me.”

“They’re sleeping, and I got bored,” Maggie says simply, pretty unbothered that she’s done wrong (or that this is happening, that her guardian who’s had exactly _zero_ love life since her birth has all the sudden had a “friend” sleep over). “And I saw Tony’s car was still here, so I came home thinking he’d help me with this.” She can hardly be bothered with looking away from the tablet. “Bucket and Nat didn’t know how to set things up.”

Steve winces, exasperated. “But how did you get in?”

“Stole Bucket’s keys.” Of course. She glances up from the device, brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry. I left them a note.”

Steve rubs his forehead where the hangover headache is blooming more and more. He’s embarrassed and angry and so flustered. “You left them a note to tell them it’s okay that you left without their permission.”

“Yep,” Maggie says, popping her lips on the ‘p’.

Speechless, he drops his hands to his hips and stares. “I, uh… Um…”

“Breakfast?”

“What?”

Tony slides Maggie from his lap. She’s so engrossed in her tablet she doesn’t seem to notice being dislodged or him getting up from Steve’s ratty couch. “I assume you eat that,” he jokes as he comes closer. Then he leans over and kisses Steve’s cheek. Unprepared, Steve flinches and backs away. He can feel his face burning as he looks in horror at Maggie, but she’s still glued to her tablet. Tony frowns, searching Steve’s face, but Steve can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. “Okay… Maybe you are the type to kick your date out the morning after.”

Snapping from his stupor, Steve stammers in a low tone, “No. No! That’s – that’s not it. I just… I…” He trails off helplessly as he watches Maggie tapping away at the screen. She _still_ hasn’t looked up. God, she’s just blundered into finding out her guardian, who’s supposed to be so level-headed and smart and serious, brought somebody home last night. Her guardian got drunk (well, drunk enough) and _slept_ with that somebody and then let that somebody – a total stranger – stay the night.

Oh, and said somebody was a man, making her guardian, the guy her mother loved and who loved her mother like no one else… bisexual now? Steve has no idea. Either way, he’s messed up terribly, and this is wrong and so screwed up and he doesn’t have a damn idea what to do. “No,” he manages after a beat. Finally he finds it within himself to look into Tony’s eyes that are so sure and stunning. “I just – she doesn’t… She’s _five._ ”

“Peg-Leg,” Tony calls, never blinking let alone looking away, “Steve and I kissed a bunch last night and I slept over. That okay with you?”

“Cool beans!” Maggie replies. “Can we get pancakes?”

Tony cocks his head. “See? Cool beans.”

Steve sighs yet again in exasperation. He keeps his voice low as he repeats himself. “Tony, she’s five!”

“What?” Coyly Tony steps closer, looking Steve up and down, the messy, rumpled clothes and the bed head and general unkempt appearance he knows he must be sporting. “I didn’t tell her _where_ I kissed you.” God, how can this guy be so charming? Steve can’t stop staring, utterly overwhelmed. Then he glances at Maggie, but she’s clearly not listening. Not that she can hear them with their voices so low, and not that she’ll understand any of it anyway. He still feels so ashamed doing this in front of her.

Tony’s sly expression softens slightly. The flirting’s over, and he takes Steve’s hands more tenderly. “Oh. Did you think… Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I just realized I better leave the money for the boat before I forgot. I always forget shit. That’s why I have a PA, so that I can come marginally close to actually functioning.”

Steve grimaces even harder. “No, no. I mean – yeah, I thought… Just… Can you stop swearing around Maggie please?”

Tony blows out a dismissive breath. “Oh, please, like her ex-GI uncle doesn’t cuss around her all the time.” That’s not said with Tony’s usual airy finesse. He fidgets, steps closer, and he’s nervous as if he’s realizing something. “Do you actually want me to go? I probably took advantage of you last night.”

That’s surprisingly insulting. “You did not take advantage of me.”

“Well, I beg to differ, because you did the big reveal, and you were kinda wasted – by the way, you clearly don’t go out enough if you hold your liquor that crappily. Anyway, drunk and vulnerable isn’t a good combo, and I went ahead anyway even though I figured I shouldn’t, even if you said it was okay because you obviously weren’t thinking straight, and you were _incredible_ , but–”

“Tony, I do not want you to go. And I am thinking straight. And…” _Holy shit._ Did Tony just say he was incredible last night? Tony Stark. Tony Stark thought _he_ was incredible in bed. Maybe that’s Tony trying to put him on, but he doesn’t think so. Not that he can think much. His brain is stuttering and skipping and he just stops functioning.

“Hence why you look like this is the most embarrassing thing ever.” Steve snaps his open mouth shut and flushes even more furiously at that. God, if he could just _stop_ blushing. Tony heaves a long breath. “Well, at the very least I took some liberties with assuming it’d be okay to hang around, but as I was trying to figure out what to do, she came back, and it felt wrong bailing on a kid when you were totally passed out, and then she wanted help with her tablet, and I did promise to help her last night, you know, and spend time with her, so I just... stayed.” He winces.

“I’m – I’m…” Steve finally gets a handle on himself and offers a small, rueful grin. “An idiot. And a jerk. And just…” He struggles to put some part of all these things he’s feeling into words. “…surprised you’re okay with… _this_.”

Tony stares a moment more. Then he steps closer until Steve can practically feel his body heat, and that’s utterly entrancing after what Tony just said. “You’re not a jerk. Or an idiot. Well, not a complete idiot anyway.” Tony tries for a grin again. “Look, with my reputation, I would have misread things too. Or thought the same thing.” That doesn’t exactly make Steve feel better, but it’s something. “And I told you last night that I didn’t mind seeing how the 99% lives for a bit.”

That brings to bear just how inadequate his place is. Again. In the bright light of day, it’s even more obvious, all the rundown furniture and the ratty rugs and the grungy state of things. Steve ignores that, though, and looks again at Maggie. He lowers his voice even further. “I meant being with her.”

“What, Peg-Leg?” Tony glances over his shoulder where she’s still sitting with her tablet. “She’s fine. She and I get along great.”

Steve’s not entirely mollified by that. He doesn’t want to insult Tony, but he’s honestly surprised at just how well they do get along. Again. And it seems stranger now. If Tony’s goal this whole time was to get into his pants, if that’s why he’s made all this effort to get closer to Maggie when he’s even said he doesn’t know anything about kids, it doesn’t make much sense to continue with the charade now. Plus that thought feels even more wrong than before. Every thought and assumption and preconception Steve had about Tony seems to be wrong.

Before he can say anything further (not that he know what exactly he wants to say anyway), there’s the sound of the apartment’s front door opening. It’s not a gentle opening, either, more like a bull charging into a china shop, and Steve winces at Bucky’s irate call. “Maggie! Maggie, where are you? You can’t – oh.”

This tone crept into Bucky’s voice, and he stands there right in the entrance, staring at them – at Tony – slack-jawed and his face lax with shock. Then his mouth closes and his eyes narrow and Steve can hear his disapproval before he even says anything.

Tony doesn’t give him a chance to. “Hey, Bucket. Top of the morning to you.”

That frown tightens even more until Steve’s sure Bucky’s face will crack if he does it any harder. _Oh, hell._ Horror and embarrassment and anger surges inside him, burning away everything tentative and good, and the reality of what he’s done _really_ sinks in. _Oh, no, no, no._ Bucky drags his murderous gaze from Tony to Steve. He’s staring at him in that way he used to, where he was about ready to reprimand him for doing something stupid. That lecture Steve thought he would get that morning… He can hear it already.

And he doesn’t want it anymore.

But Bucky turns to Maggie. “You,” he says to her, who’s still so engrossed with her tablet that she’s not noticing the tension at all, “do _not_ leave the apartment without telling us. You nearly gave me a heart attack.” Maggie says nothing, tapping frantically at her toy. “Maggie!”

“What?” she snaps, even still not giving them her attention.

Steve snaps from his stupor, stepping away from Tony to take her tablet away. “Hey, someone’s talking to you. You’re being incredibly rude.” She _still_ doesn’t respond, but he knows now she’s listening. She’s tense, and her eyes narrow disdainfully. They’re not focused on the screen. She’s choosing to disregard him.

And Steve loses his temper. “Enough with the tablet!” He grips the smooth edge and yanks it away. Brown eyes settle into a petulant glare, one Steve knows all too well. He’s so rattled and agitated that anger just bleeds into his tone. “You snuck out on Bucky. And stole his keys. And you’re ignoring him – and me – right now. You can’t do that, and you need to apologize.”

All the sudden, those eyes are filling with tears. Her lower lips quivers, but this doesn’t seem like the pouting she does for show. Steve stares in annoyed confusion a second, and then she’s bolting, jumping down from the couch and running across the small living room back toward the bedrooms, to the little alcove where she sleeps. She disappears in there.

It’s quiet for what feels like a long time. The three men stand there, shocked. “Um…” Tony looks between Steve and Bucky. “Shouldn’t one of you… parent? Or something?”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Bucky snarls, and he’s coming further into the apartment with fire in his eyes. His shoulders are tense lines beneath the worn t-shirt he’s thrown on, and even without his left arm he’s the picture of wrath as he rounds the couch and attempts to follow Maggie. “It’s time for you to get lost.”

Shaken, Steve grimaces, getting in his way. “Buck, wait. Let me–”

“You sure?” Tony says, coming closer himself. There’s a taunt in his tone and a hard look in his eyes. “I was thinking we got this awesome _Three Men and a Baby_ vibe going.” He glances at Steve. “Only gay-er.”

That’s not the thing to say. “Tony,” Steve starts sharply, stepping in between him and Bucky as the latter takes another stalking step closer. “Come on, don’t–”

“Yeah, everything’s a joke to you, right,” Bucky says, and now the threat in his voice is even worse. “You can just laugh it all off. You’re rich. But we can’t. And you probably got what you came for, so what are you _still_ doing here? Buying her? Stringing him along even further?”

Steve scrambles. “No, that’s not–”

“I didn’t string him along to begin with,” Tony responds sharply. His eyes narrow. “I could have if I wanted to, but I didn’t, because – news flash – I like him.” Bucky’s eyes widen. He darts his gaze at Steve, and Steve feels his face burning yet again. “I _really_ like him. And you might think that’s a joke or bullshit or whatever, and I’ll admit _yet again_ that it’s a first that it’s not, but it’s true.” Tony’s eyes darken. “You know what’s not a first, though? Being treated like shit for trying to do the right thing. That’s why I don’t bother.”

“I’ll cry you a goddamn river,” Bucky says lowly.

“And it’s really not cool that _I’m_ the one getting thrown out and that my date’s rabid asshole of a friend is the one who’s doing it. I kinda forgot that you were a judgmental dickwad last night.”

Bucky glowers, undaunted by the accusations. “I’m not judgmental. I just call it like I see it. And you? You got no business using my buddy and his kid so you can get laid.”

Tony’s grip on his cool is visibly eroding. “She’s not his kid.” _Oh, shit._ Steve’s blood turns to ice and he nearly drops Maggie’s tablet. Yet again Bucky’s eyes go wide. It feels terrible that the two of them are arguing like this – about him, no less – right in front of him, but it feels worse still that Steve’s deepest secrets are being used like ammunition. “Oh, yeah. Believe it. He trusted me enough to tell me that. So there.”

Bucky’s too stunned to figure out what to say. He just stares in stupefaction, eyes going between Tony and Steve. “Damn it,” he finally whispers, shaking his head. “Then you _really_ need to get out.”

“How about no,” Tony replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not unless Steve wants me gone.”

That’s a clear invitation for Bucky to say something that will clearly undermine Steve’s own autonomy. Steve doesn’t know if Tony trapped them like this on purpose, but it’s painful. The second Bucky’s mouth hangs open while he figures out what to say is godawful, because Bucky cares for him like he’s his brother, and there are lines they don’t cross, have never come close to crossing.

And Steve’s uselessly still, no matter how Bucky waits and practically implores him to agree so they can toss Tony out. Bucky finally shuts his mouth, and his eyes turn stormy again. He looks like the picture of barely restrained wrath. “This is screwed up.”

“Screwed up is how I operate,” Tony says matter-of-factly.

“Right.” That has Bucky scowling again. The air is practically sizzling with animosity, and everything feels like it’s quickly spiraling out of control anew. “Thanks for making my goddamn point, you smug asshole.”

“Uh-huh. And of the two of us, which is rich and famous? You keep trying to define my whole existence by my bank account, so let’s do that. Which has personal drivers and assistants and stylists and security?”

Again, that’s _not_ the thing to say. “That supposed to scare me?” Bucky retorts.

“Probably should,” Tony advises. Even looking as rumpled and messy as he does in his thousand dollar suit, and standing against two soldiers who are taller and bigger, he seems strong and every bit as intimidating as one may expect from a billionaire. “With all due respect, you’re a nobody. I run a trillion-dollar tech conglomerate. I guess you could beat me up if you wanted. That seems, frankly, in character but pretty stupid. I could ruin you with a single phone call.” Tony tips his head toward Bucky’s missing arm. “Then again, let’s be real here. Beating me up’s not all that possible, huh.” Bucky’s eyes flash at the crass implication. Tony grins, but it’s hurt and mean. “You ever think about getting a replacement? Might help you reach better so you can get your panties out of a twist.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, and Steve knows that look, too. It’s the one he always gets before clobbering some bully giving them a hard time. He loses his patience. “Alright, stop it! Both of you!” He steps more firmly between the two of them. Bucky looks aggravated, but Tony is downright shocked. It makes sense, considering how unsure of himself and wishy-washy he’s been since they met.

Steve can’t really bring himself to care though, because there’s a little sob from Maggie’s area. Of course she heard all that, because they weren’t exactly trying to be quiet. Angry, Steve steps aside toward her space, offering both men a short, warning glare as he does. He steps right on those Legos he barely avoided before. This is hardly the first time a small, pointy piece of plastic has come in contact with his bare foot, but it _hurts,_ and his temper is even more frayed, so he loses it. “Goddamn it!” he shouts, kicking the Legos away and slamming a palm into the wall. He sucks in air through his teeth, trying to breathe through the sting, trying to _calm down._

It’s quiet, painfully so. Steve leans against the wall, eyes clenched shut, his arms rigid as he braces against the plaster board and just breathes to get through the moment. It takes that moment, and a couple after it, for him to open his eyes again. He can just spot Maggie on her bed, and there are tears on her cheeks, and it’s the same question, over and over again.

How the hell could he have been so stupid?

He sighs and turns back to the others. “I get it, okay? You don’t like each other. You’ve made that _abundantly_ clear. Just… please stop fighting. Not like this.”

They both look horrified, like they’re only now realizing they took things too far. Bucky’s pale, and he drops his gaze with a visible swallow and nods. Tony’s grimacing, horror splayed across his features as if he’s never realized arguing in front of a kid isn’t the best idea. Guilt slices through Steve, both at seeing them so low and again for upsetting Maggie. He swallows that down, takes another deep breath, and heads into Maggie’s bedroom.

She turns to face the wall the second he comes closer. Steve stands there in the entrance a moment before taking the couple steps to her bed. He sits on the end of it, staring at her tense little body. He feels terrible. “Look,” he starts, breaking the miserable silence, “I’m sorry for snapping. And I’m sorry for what just happened. Nothing that’s gone on this morning was your fault.” He exhales, deflating a bit. “I was mad at you when I was really mad at me.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “And the manufacturers of Legos. They should all be in prison.”

It takes a moment for her to say anything. “Why are you mad at you? For letting Tony be here?”

Steve looks down at his lap, at her tablet computer that he’s still carrying. “Yes.” Then he thinks twice of that. “No. I… I don’t know. I messed up.”

“Did you really tell me about me?”

That guilt becomes a deep sense of shame. “I messed up,” he says again, like that can excuse his selfishness. Like that forgives him for getting pretty drunk and confessing things he has no right to confess and then bringing his date back to spend the night in _their_ home. The rollercoaster ride of emotions this morning just plummets, and he wants off. He takes another deep breath. “I just… For the first time since your mom, I went out. I had a good time. And… I had no right to tell him anything. It’s not just my story. Not just my life.”

“It’s okay.” Steve looks up from his lap at the soft absolution. It seems like Maggie’s staring at the wall. She still hasn’t moved. “I like Tony knowing. I like Tony.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah, I can tell.” Breaking Bucky’s rules like that, sneaking out and coming over… Maggie’s headstrong and willful but not to that extent. Not for just anyone.

“He’s like me.”

That gives Steve pause. “Yeah?” he manages after a moment.

Finally Maggie sits up. Steve notices now she wasn’t staring at the wall before. She’s looking at Peggy’s picture. “He’s smart.”

What is it that Tony said last night? Multiple times, no less. _She’s really smart._ And Maggie’s right, not that Steve has any doubts. Tony’s smart, too. Not just the usual kind of smart, either. Not just your average “he’s good at math” or “she’s a great student” sort of smart. This is exceptional. All the things Steve learned on their date last night, how Tony’s a genius, was a child prodigy graduating from high school when most kids are figuring out the basics of being a teenager, how he’s so keen and clever and perceptive… He sees it in Maggie’s eyes, that light that was Peggy’s, yes, but more, sharper and deeper and not quite something Steve recognized before. Now he does. He does because he sees it in Tony’s eyes, too. That’s what’s so familiar about it, so similar. Intelligence beyond the average, beyond normality. Far beyond anyone.

A gift.

“Yeah, he is,” Steve says softly. Maggie turns to him and smiles. That’s Peggy’s smile, through and through, this look of utter, pure appreciation and love. He realizes something else then. This has gone way beyond his date with Tony. It happened fast, just over a few hours spread over a few days, and it was inexplicable and unexpected, completely unanticipated, but here they are. Maggie’s found someone who understands her. Someone she can relate to. Someone who can _teach_ her. She’s _found_ someone.

Suddenly this is a lot more complicated than he can untangle.

But he does know one thing. “I’m not sending him away, okay?” he says, coming back from his thoughts. He reaches over and puts a hand on her shoulder, gripping and pulling her closer to look in her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m not doing that.”

“Bucket’s really mad, though,” she replies in a bit of a whimper. “And Tony’s mad. And you’re sad. And mad.”

“I’m mad because I messed up,” he explains again, “not because of them and not because of you. I shouldn’t have let Tony sleep over, not without thinking some things through first. And I shouldn’t have told him everything.” That’s abundantly clear. After all, he’s been working so hard to hide the truth. He’s trained her on what to say, what to do, how to act and how to lie without lying. Never calling him by his name in public. Never referring to her mother unless she has to. Never even telling her everything about Peggy and her family. He’s run this charade Maggie’s whole life, and he botched it in one night. He wants to trust Tony, but can he? He shakes his head. “Even if you’re okay with it, I shouldn’t have. But the fact is… I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You never do,” Maggie adds softly, because that’s what they say. That’s what _Steve_ says. How many times has he tipped his head back in flustered helplessness after she threw her bottle or flailed around trying to clean up a mess or held her while she suffered through an endless cold or struggled through a temper tantrum. Even before Maggie could talk, she knew those phrases. _“I don’t know what I’m doing. I never do.”_

Steve heaves another sigh, one that puffs out his lips, and rubs a hand through his hair. “Shocking, I know.”

It takes another moment, but Maggie nods. “You do need to do better.”

She’s teasing him, so the moment of misery must be over. He rolls his eyes and pushes her tablet into her chest. Then he stands, kissing her messy hair. “Let me go sort this out. Mediate a truce between them or something.”

She nods, and her posture completely changes as she resettles herself so her back is against the wall and her bedding and toys are around her. The tablet is powered on and in her lap, and like a switch has been flicked inside her, she’s back to playing with it. Steve watches a moment more, relieved she seems no worse for the wear and amazed at how quickly kids adapt, before walking away.

“Steve?”

He stops. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t really look up. “I’m your kid, though, right?”

She knows she’s not, not really. Not biologically. But a small smile comes to his face, and he exhales slowly like he needs to reaffirm this is still right with the truth so recently revealed and right before them. Of course, it _is_ right. That’s what she’s reaffirming, too. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t answer because she’s back to playing, so he steps outside, smiling still.

* * *

As it turns out, the fire’s out already when he goes back to the living room. He’s not sure what he was expecting (probably more arguing, or at least a silence as bitter and unyielding as some sort of cold war between the haves and the have-nots), but Tony and Bucky both standing in his kitchen isn’t it. He hears low voices and smells coffee as he gets closer, and he hesitantly steps into the small area to find the two of them each with a cup and leaning against his kitchen counter. Granted, there’s as much space between them as there can conceivably be in such cramped quarters, but they’re both there. And the air is still tense, but it’s not nearly as fiery as it was before, so Steve holds his breath and hopes things are better.

They seem to be. “Sorry,” Bucky says after a beat, breaking yet another an uncomfortably long quiet period. He glances at Tony, and Tony glances back, and then he dips his head and sighs. “I _was_ being a rabid asshole.”

“And I, uh… did the rich asshole thing. Too.” Tony sips his coffee from an old, chipped mug, and he winces, obviously not at the heat but the taste. It’s just Folger’s. He’s probably never had just Folger’s. “Sorry.” He looks up to see Steve’s reaction. “She okay?”

“Not happy you guys were at each other,” Steve says, coming into the kitchen to get himself a cup. That has them both looking seriously contrite again, and it’s Steve’s natural inclination to feel a little bad about that, but that’s not stronger than how annoyed he is. “You know, it’s pretty much a cardinal rule not to argue in front of kids. You have an excuse. Barely.” He passes Tony at that, giving him a bit of a sharp look. Tony frowns and drops his eyes, and Steve turns to his best friend. “Not sure what your deal is.”

Bucky grunts. “Old habits.”

“Yeah,” Steve mutters. He pours the coffee from the carafe into his cup. “Well, I’m thinking, if it’s not too much trouble, maybe we can start this whole morning over again.”

“Actually, on that front, we’re way ahead of you.” Tony sets his cup to the old, stained counter. “We’re thinking breakfast? Out? You know, at a restaurant? If… that’s okay with you?”

Surprised, Steve turns to Bucky, who’s still not really meeting his gaze. It’s extremely obvious that he’s not at all pleased with whatever peace agreement he and Tony came to while Steve was dealing with Maggie. He doesn’t argue, though, drawing a deep breath. “Breakfast sounds nice.”

That’s such a relief that Steve can’t even say. “You sure?”

Bucky darts another suspicious look at Tony, but he nods all the same. “We can… start over,” he says, begrudgingly but not entirely unwillingly. “Try the introduction thing again.” He lifts his good shoulder. “Makes about as much sense as a billionaire wanting to…” He stops himself, but it’s clear enough what he was about to say. _About as much sense as a billionaire wanting to bang my best friend._ Bucky clears his throat. “As anything else that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours.”

It’s an olive branch, at least as much as Bucky’s willing to extend. Steve feels his face reddening again, but he forces down the shame and turns to Tony. Thankfully, Tony doesn’t follow up with anything insulting. “Yeah, it’ll be cool. We can, you know… Get to know each other? Smooth over the rough edges?”

Bucky’s still not thrilled. He doesn’t argue, though. “Yeah.”

There’s the sound of footsteps just outside the kitchen and a quiet thud against the wall. Maggie’s trying to be sneaky, but it’s not working. Steve shares a knowing look with Bucky, and Bucky’s mood isn’t quite so terrible as to not be amused. He sets his coffee down and heads out of the kitchen. “What?”

“Are you guys done fighting?” comes her soft question.

“Are you ready to apologize for running off this morning?” Bucky returns.

Steve can’t see her, but he can practically picture her putting on the repentance show for him. This one is pure manipulation, because she probably knows they’re not arguing anymore. “I’m sorry I left the apartment.”

“And stole my keys,” Bucky adds.

“And stole your keys.”

“And interrupted Steve’s date. Because he’s allowed to have _one_ night and _one_ morning away from you. And he’s allowed to have his, uh… this guy–”

“Tony,” Tony quietly offers with a little grin.

Steve can’t help a smile himself at Bucky’s rolling eyes and heavy sigh. “Tony,” he adds grumpily. “To himself. For at least a little bit.”

Now she sounds sufficiently apologetic. “I’m sorry.” For a second anyway. Even though Steve still can’t see her, he can hear her jiggling and bouncing. She turns it on and off so fast. “Are we really getting breakfast? You said breakfast. I’m hungry! And can Nattie come? Can she?”

Bucky shoots Steve a sideways glance. It’s equal parts reluctant and long-suffering. It’s also (finally) a silent plea that they not do this. Steve considers it honestly then. Maybe they shouldn’t. It’s asking an awful lot, all things considering. Steve and Tony have been on a total of one date. Their sleeping together shouldn’t be factoring into any decisions at this point. Steve _knows_ that’s meaningless, and Bucky’s definitely not going to approve if and when that comes up (like it’s not obvious). Furthermore, the bottom line is this: it’s _not like_ Tony is here to meet his friends and win their approval. He never has been.

Yet, in a way, that’s what this has been about from the get-go. Maybe putting all this tension to rest is worth the discomfort. He’s not sure where this is going with Tony, if it’s going anywhere at all, but the fact Tony is still here…

“Yeah, she can come,” Bucky says in acquiescence. “And we’ll go out.”

Maggie’s bouncing more energetically, and she pulls away from Bucky to come into the kitchen. “NockingPoint! NockingPoint!”

Tony looks confused. “What is that?”

Maggie is busy plastering herself all over Steve’s legs. She always gets really clingy when she wants something. A few months back, she was on him for weeks to get a piano, on him literally _and_ figuratively. A piano and a cat. She’s bound and determined to wear him down. “It’s a local dive. A seaside grill, bar kind of place.”

“And they serve breakfast?”

“Yeah.” Bucky seems a little irritated but he keeps it mostly contained. Mostly. “Fishermen like to stop and eat, too.”

Tony’s contemplating that for a moment. Then he sips his coffee again, grimaces, and sets the cup back down. “If they serve coffee better than this, then it’s already a winner.”

That decides it. Bucky’s _still_ not totally on board with going out together, let alone leaving to go get cleaned up and collect Natasha, but he does it. Maggie’s all too eager to get herself ready; considering Steve’s done nothing but drag her along every morning since school started, it’s downright awesome that she’s rushing to get dressed, wash up, and brush her teeth. Steve keeps an eye on her as she blazes through her morning routine, watching Tony who’s tapping at his phone in the living room. He winces as he realizes how completely inconvenient this is for him. “You sure this is okay?” he asks, the question barely audible over Maggie loudly singing some pop song from the bathroom.

Tony types a moment more at his phone and then looks up. “Yeah,” he says. “Why?” Steve drags his eyes down Tony’s rumpled shirt and pants. Tony glances down toward the washroom, clearly checking to see if Maggie is watching or close to being done. The water is still running, and she’s still belting out her song (which she must have gotten from school; Steve’s never heard Natasha sing this one with her before). Given that, Tony saunters closer. “Don’t worry, sweets.” He flashes that amazing grin of his, the one that’s really starting to make Steve weak in the knees, and presses close. “I can handle an extremely uncomfortable breakfast. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to hold my own with a table full of people who hate me.”

“They don’t hate you,” Steve corrects, though having Tony close is making his mind go fuzzy again. “And it won’t be a table full.”

“Well, whatever. I can handle it.”

“And I’m sorry about before. He gets… protective.”

Tony chuckles. “Got that loud and clear.”

“And I’ve got some clothes that might fit you.” Steve reconsiders that, how rundown even his nicer stuff is and if any of it will actually work for Tony, who’s not as tall as he is and definitely built differently. “They’re not the best, but you’re welcome to them. And you can use our bathroom–”

“No need. I already have things coming.”

Steve feels surprise tighten his face. “Huh?”

Tony leans up a bit and kisses his cheek. “Go take a shower. You smell like a casino.” Another kiss is a little more aggressive and teasing. “Among other things.”

All Steve can smell is Tony’s cologne, probably the most expensive cologne money can buy. Since last night, it’s quickly become intoxicating. Yet again his cheeks feel to be absolutely on fire, but before he can try to think let alone appease this abrupt, deep, _primal_ need to kiss Tony, Tony’s pulling away and answering his phone. “Yeah, Pep? Hi. No, things are fine.” He waves Steve away with a smile and heads to the apartment door. He’s outside a second later.

Steve stares after him, a little afraid he won’t come back. But he makes himself go back to his bedroom and find some clean clothes. He tells Maggie (who notices _immediately_ that Tony is gone and gets flustered about it until Steve promises he’ll return momentarily) to wait in the living room and _not go anywhere_ while he gets ready. Then he takes a lightning-quick shower, one that harkens back to his military days. He tries not to think as he scrubs himself down and washes his hair, tries not to worry about the fight still fresh on his mind or the awkwardness from the date or the moment he broke open in Tony’s car. He really doesn’t want to think about last night, about how good Tony was to him, how _amazing_ it was to have someone with him. And then there are all the things over which to be embarrassed. Holy hell, he has no shortage of them. Good embarrassment – like how he fumbled through his first time with Tony, lost in desire and desperation, and how Tony said he was incredible, and he has no idea what he did to warrant that but he wants to do it again – and bad – like basically every moment he was a moron and a jerk last night and this morning and since he met Tony days ago. He has to admit that if their roles were reversed, he probably would have bolted. What did Tony call him? The quiet, damaged hot guy, one with a kid, and one who consistently thinks the worst of someone who’s been nothing but generous and understanding and patient. If he were Tony, he’d have ditched this disaster long ago.

Steve decides then and there that he’s not going to let Bucky or anyone else give Tony a hard time.

After the shower, he digs around to find a clean pair of jeans and a nicer shirt. As he smooths down the cotton of his button-down, he regrets not buying some more new clothes when he went out shopping with Bucky before. Of course, at the time he didn’t consider this date becoming anything else, so why would he have wasted the money? That makes him think about last night, about the extravagance of it all, about the imbalance. It doesn’t anger and disgust him so much now, but he still feels intimidated by it.

He sighs and decides, too, that he’s not letting Tony pay for anything today.

Again he hears the apartment’s door squeaking open and banging shut, and Steve bends to look back down the hallway, thinking it’s Tony returning. It’s not. Natasha and Bucky are walking in, the latter looking around for Tony and the former practically stalking. Bucky’s put on a nicer pair of khaki shorts and a gray t-shirt, the left sleeve tied up, and Natasha looks pretty in capri shorts and a pink blouse. Maggie goes running to them, pouts that it’s not Tony until Natasha gives her a hurt frown. Then she grins, and Natasha shoots Steve a stern look as she pulls Maggie to her side. “He do your hair?”

Maggie nods, her brown locks already falling out of the clips Steve hastily put in there. Natasha returns that icy gaze of hers to Steve, and there’s accusation in that that has nothing to do with Maggie’s messed up hairdo. Steve feels his stomach clench, thinking back to her threat just a few days ago. _Don’t bend to them._ “Come on,” she says. “Let’s fix it before we go.”

They go off to the bathroom, and Bucky comes right at Steve. Steve cringes, moving away from the door to his bedroom to hastily straighten up. It’s not going to stop the reprimand that now has to be coming.

And here it finally is. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Bucky demands. At least he has the sense to keep his voice down. That shocked, flustered expression from last night has married the anger from this morning and turned into exasperated frown of disapproval. “You _slept_ with him?”

Steve pulls his comforter back in place. He catches another whiff of Tony’s cologne as he does. “You know, there’s irony in the fact that last night you were practically telling me to get laid. You took Maggie basically so I could if I wanted to. And now I did and you’re giving me a hard time.”

“Not with him,” Bucky says harshly.

“Because he’s a guy?” Steve’s just baiting, because he knows Bucky would never have a problem with that, and it’s mean to imply that he does. Defensiveness always brings out the worst in people. He picks up his clothes from last night and tosses them into the hamper. They probably need to be dry cleaned, but he doesn’t care. “Or because he’s _that_ guy.”

“Jesus, Stevie…” Bucky shakes his head.

“We don’t exactly have time for this right now. I’m sure he’s coming right back.”

“You’re sure he’s coming back, because it seems to me he got–”

“Don’t,” Steve warns, leaning up from gathering more dirty laundry, hoping he’ll find his sneakers under the clothes somewhere. He eyes Bucky angrily. “Just don’t, okay? If he got what he came for, he wouldn’t still be here.”

Bucky lifts his good shoulder in a shrug. “What is he here for then? What does he want with you?”

These are the questions Bucky probably would have asked last night if he had the chance. They’re the same ones Steve has asked himself over and over again since Tony came into his world. “I don’t know, Buck! I can’t explain any of this. I don’t know what he’s after, only he’s had plenty of opportunities to be this awful asshole everyone says he is, and he hasn’t taken them. He’s been nothing but sweet and kind and, yeah, flirty and a little arrogant, but _nice._ He says he likes me, and I – I believe him.”

“You _want_ to believe him,” Bucky corrects.

Steve feels his temper fray again and not just because his shoes are still among the missing. He gets down on his knees and looks under the bed. “Of course I want to believe him! You know, you can’t have this both ways. You can’t want me to have my own life and then not trust me to live it.”

Bucky’s silent for a moment. Steve feels the weight of his gaze on him as he searches, and it’s heavy and questioning. Doubtful. It’s not unlike how it was when Steve told him he wasn’t re-enlisting, that he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him. It takes everything Steve has to not crumble under the gravity of it.

“And what about Maggie?” Bucky finally asks.

Steve grunts, finally finding his worn sneakers and pulling them from where they’re tucked against the corner of his bed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she loves him.”

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky chides. “Don’t be naïve. She loves the expensive present he got her.”

Steve expected that, and it feels so shallow and _wrong._ “No. It’s not that simple. It’s…” He sits on his bed. He doesn’t know how to explain what Maggie told him before. He doesn’t know if he should. And he really has no reason to believe what he says next, but the words just come. “I think he can help her.”

It’s clear Bucky doesn’t get it. His brow furrows, and he shakes his head silently for a moment. “You mean help pay for what she needs?”

Honestly, Steve hasn’t thought about that, hasn’t even considered it. Tony has thrown so much money at him without a second thought. The fancy dinner and the gifts. Hell, he even offered to help Thor fix up their shop like it’s nothing. He probably wouldn’t bat an eye at the tuition Steve needed to send Maggie to a better school, Shield Academy or anywhere else. The second that idea comes into his head, he dismisses it, though. It’s manipulative and selfish. It’s wrong. “I don’t know what I mean, Buck. I just know I can’t send him away. She doesn’t want me to. _I_ don’t want to.” He looks up from where he was staring at that envelope full of money. Then he goes to put on his shoes. “And I’d really appreciate your support.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something but then clicks it shut, like he’s thought better of it. Steve’s glad for that. With his shoes laced up and tied, he finally finds the courage to look at Bucky, really look at him. It’s the first time in a while he’s felt confident enough to meet his gaze. “And even if I’m wrong, I’m not going to let him hurt me. Or Maggie. Okay?”

For a really long moment, Bucky just searches his face. Appeasing his protective streak doesn’t usually work very well. He’s probably thinking that Steve doesn’t have the best track record with taking care of himself or seeing the shittier side of people and reacting accordingly. Steve’s thinking that himself, but he means what he’s promising.

Finally, Bucky agrees. “Okay, punk.”

Relieved, Steve stands. He reaches out and takes Bucky’s shoulder. Then he tugs him into his arms. Being at odds – or even having Bucky disapprove of him – always hurts too much. Bucky returns the hug, and they pull apart. He heaves a sigh and manages a hint of his usual teasing grin. “So was he as good in bed as everyone says?”

Steve blushes again. “Oh, shut up.” Bucky laughs. “And it’s not like I have anyone to compare it to.”

Down the hallway, the door to the apartment opens and closes yet again. It has to be Tony coming back in, a conclusion that’s confirmed by Maggie’s excited squeal. Natasha’s reprimanding voice follows. Bucky grimaces. “I’ll try to keep her off him. You know how she is about Maggie.”

Steve does, all too well. He gives Bucky a grateful glance before heading back out. Tony is indeed there, and Maggie’s wrapped around his legs. He looks more uncomfortable, despite the fact he somehow changed. It’s pretty ridiculous, that he’s standing there in jeans and an expensive, satin button-down shirt that he wasn’t wearing just a half an hour before. He also looks refreshed: hair newly styled and gelled, eyes bright, goatee sharpened, the soft scent of his cologne refreshed. Clearly he can’t have used Steve’s bathroom, so where did he go? What did he do? _How?_

Money. That’s the answer to everything. And it’s stupidly obvious. Tony flashes that grin of his, a little smug and a lot charming, like he knows that they know. “You guys ready?”

A deep frown of displeasure claims Natasha’s face, and Steve’s about to say something. Bucky is, too, pushing from behind his friend to keep his promise and stop his girlfriend from eviscerating what she undoubtedly perceives as a threat. However, Maggie herself is already on top of it. She leaves Tony’s legs to stand in the middle of them all. “No more fighting,” she says. She’s got her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes and – _God_ – she looks like Peggy when she stands like that. Once Steve saw Peggy dress down some soldiers who made a pass at her. This was right before they got together, and the group of them had whistled and cat-called, and she had them all cowering before her with a sharp word and a look of steel. On Maggie’s face right now, it’s almost comical. Almost. “Tony is staying because Steve’s allowed to roll hay with whoever he wants.”

Natasha’s face scrunches in confusion. Then she makes the connection, and Steve wants to run back into his bedroom and die. “Yeah, how about we go now,” he says quickly, rushing to Maggie and grasping her shoulder. He leans down close to her and drops his voice. “No one’s going to push him out, okay? Stop!” He doesn’t miss her huge grin as he quickly leads her out of the apartment.

After that, it’s a tense assignment of car seats to bodies. It’s a waste of space and gas, but they end up taking Steve’s truck, Natasha’s car, and Tony drives himself. Steve can see Maggie wants to go with Tony, but that seems like a monumentally bad idea with Bucky and Natasha there, and Steve’s not entirely sure he trusts Tony with that level of responsibility. Plus a five year old in a sports car like that seems pretty ludicrous. So Maggie rides with him in his truck, and they caravan over to the NockingPoint.

Maggie’s babbling a mile a minute the whole ride. Steve hasn’t seen her this happy since school started. It’s comforting to hear her go on about her new tablet, about the things Tony apparently showed her while Steve was sleeping, about the research Tony’s doing, about his lab in New York. About how he thinks Maggie would like to see it. “Wait,” Steve says as they turn toward the restaurant. “He said you should come to New York? As in New York City?”

“Yeah,” Maggie says, and she’s beaming. “Can we? He says he has a computing cluster there bigger than Google, and the combined power? Faster than Summit and Sierra at 200 petaflops.”

“Mags.” Steve grips the steering wheel harder. He slowly heads down the drive to the bay. The restaurant is on a pier not far from the marina where he works, right on the harbor. “We can’t just go to New York.”

She sighs, even though she’s too smart not to have seen that coming. “Why not?”

“Because we can’t.” He glances in his rearview mirror to see Tony’s expensive car on his tail. Tony’s not pressing that close, and there’s a bit of tinting on the windshield that makes it hard to see his face. It looks like he may be on the phone. “We don’t have the money.”

“If Tony invited us, can’t you just ask him to help pay?”

“No. We have to be self-sufficient.” Ahead is the parking lot (partially asphalt, but mostly compressed dirt). Steve pulls his truck into a loosely defined spot. “And we have to be careful. Going to New York isn’t careful.”

It’s hard watching a little girl’s heart break. “But why?” she whines.

 _“Because we can’t.”_ Saying it over and over again doesn’t make it any less arbitrary. Steve puts the truck into park. Next to him, Tony pulls up in his car. Natasha flanks him on the other side in her old, beat-up Camry. Steve sucks in a deep breath and turns to Maggie. “Let’s just have a nice breakfast, okay? Stop thinking so much.” He smiles. “Pancakes, right?”

She still looks disappointed. He’s said “no” to her countless times in the past; every parent has to, because that’s an important lesson to learn. But this time is not like the others. This isn’t to a toy or candy or even a cat or piano. This is to a chance to learn from a man who can clearly teach her. He thinks back to what she just said in her bedroom, to the fact that already it’s obvious that she doesn’t fit in at school, to what he knows in his heart. He reaches over and pushes the hair from her cheek. Even with Natasha’s efforts clipping it back, it’s coming loose anew. “Not right now,” he offers. “We can talk about it later.” He’s not sure he has any intention of doing that, but he knows he needs to get her out of the car while she’s in a good mood.

The offer pleases her, so off they go. The second she’s free, Maggie goes to Tony, who is in fact on the phone again. He’s not paying attention to her bouncing around him. It seems like he’s a little irritated with her distractions. Despite the financial evidence constantly right in his face, Steve’s been forgetting Tony’s a very busy, successful businessman. It’s Saturday, and he’s clearly engaged in some sort of work call. So he takes Maggie back, softly admonishing her for bothering Tony while he’s on the phone. Natasha narrows her eyes, and Bucky looks moderately peeved, but he just ignores that and leads their group down the pier toward the NockingPoint.

The restaurant’s not a very big place, but it does get extremely busy. It’s no great shakes, either. It’s mostly weathered, sun-baked wood, airy and open to the harbor beyond it. There’s a massive patio hanging off the pier over the waves. Inside it’s a little shadowy but homey enough. Like so many of these bayside haunts, the décor is tacky, a mish-mash of junk its proprietors have collected over the years. Statues of fishermen. Fake fish and other fishing-related items on the walls. Clichéd and janky artwork. There’s an impressive array of license plates on the wall above the well-loved bar. The whole place smells like the sea.

Its current proprietor is Clint Barton. He’s an ex-Olympic athlete, a master archer of all things (which explains the place’s name and the strange juxtaposition of the bows and arrows and pictures of him at the Barcelona games as well as Atlanta and Sydney on the walls next to the fishing paraphernalia). At least, that’s the story Steve’s been told by Natasha. She and Clint know each other somehow, some connection from their pasts. Much like with Natasha, Steve gets the impression his previous life was far more complicated than his current one. The guy’s a bit of a character with his spiked, mohawky hair and tattoos all down his well-muscled arms. He’s softer than he looks, snarky, fun, and pretty outgoing, but there’s a touch of darkness to him. Steve has always thought he reads ex-military; a little damaged, a little dangerous. Clint’s seen stuff and done stuff, way more that shooting targets on a range in a competition. Steve’s never asked, and he won’t. He knows how to respect distance.

The guy’s face breaks out in huge smile for them as they enter. He’s behind the bar cleaning up, but he comes around to greet them. “Hey, Nat!” For her he has a hug. He’s one of the few people outside their little group with whom Natasha’s ever this loose and unguarded. Then he shakes Bucky’s good hand before turning to Steve. “Hey, Barnes. Rogers.”

“Hey, Clint,” Steve greets.

“Been a couple of weeks,” he comments.

Steve pulls Maggie to his leg. “School started.”

“Ah.” Clint drops down to put his hands on his knees. “Hey, there, Magaggie.”

It’s some reference to _The Simpsons._ Steve’s never seen it. A couple years ago, they came here for dinner on Maggie’s birthday, and ever since then it’s been Clint’s running joke. “Got pancakes?” she asks, looking up at Clint.

Clint pokes her nose with a callused forefinger. “For you, always.” He stands up and spots Tony. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Name’s Clint Barton.”

Tony still hasn’t gotten off the phone. That’s not common behavior around their crowd. Frankly, no one’s important enough to ever really need to talk on the phone like that. Plus it’s rude. Tony doesn’t really pay Clint his attention, and Steve worries about first impressions. Not that Clint’s opinion really matters, at least not as Bucky’s and Natasha’s does, but he’s not terribly interested in having someone else disparage his choices. “He’s Tony. He’s hanging out with us this morning.” Maybe, if he’s lucky, Clint won’t make the connection.

Yeah, right. Apparently everyone knows who Tony Stark is except him. “Uh-huh,” Clint says. “Hanging out.” Tony doesn’t answer to that. He turns away from them and is talking tensely into his phone. “Okay. Well, you guys want to sit?”

“Gladly,” Natasha says, and Clint leads them to a table by the open windows to the patio. They have their choice; aside from a few fishermen Steve doesn’t know by name, the place is empty. Already hypersensitive to the tension, Maggie goes very pointedly to take Tony’s hand and lead him to the table. Tony’s still a little resistant and a lot distracted, frowning, shaking his head, and walking away, and just that tiny rejection has her all but terrified. Once again, Steve quickly retrieves and hushes her, promising the call won’t take that much longer when he really doesn’t know himself. They settle around the marked up wooden table, and Clint comes over to get their orders. He tries to make things light for Maggie, but neither she nor anyone else really settles until Tony comes back. The minutes drag on.

Finally Tony comes and sits down next to Steve. Maggie immediately launches herself at him, and he doesn’t seem as comfortable with her clinginess as he did back in their apartment. “Alright, done with that,” he says on a long breath, gently pushing Maggie back toward Steve. He checks his phone again as he does, frowning a hell of a frown, and it seems for a second he’ll get back on it. He doesn’t appear to care at all that he has a whole table full of people, including one very concerned little girl, staring at him.

But he stuffs the phone into his pocket. Everyone’s still watching him until Clint finally says, “Coffee?”

Tony glances toward the empty bar near where they came in. “Got anything stronger?”

Clint looks dubious. “Sure,” he declares after a moment. “Coffee you guys? Milk for Maggie?” Steve nods. “Want a load of grub?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, watching Tony with renewed suspicion.

Clint nods. “Alright. Back in a bit.” He turns and heads toward the kitchen, bellowing to his staff to fire up the griddle.

That plunges them into another awkward silence. Any hope of this being a fresh start is withering, and Steve wants to beat his head against the table in frustration. Natasha is drumming her fingers against the marred surface and glaring daggers, and Bucky is not exactly doing anything to ease the unpleasantness. Not that Steve should really be depending on him. He offered to keep Natasha from murdering Tony, not to keep up the small talk. “Everything okay?” Steve finally asks, both to fill the silence and because he’s concerned.

Tony tries to seem nonchalant, but it’s not terribly convincing. At least not to Steve. “Just crap with the company. Apparently I was supposed to be in New York this morning.”

The blood drains from Steve’s face. “Oh. You don’t have to be here if you need to leave.”

On the chair beside him, Maggie looks up. “No!”

Steve grips her arm tightly enough to warn her. “If he needs to go, Mags, he needs to go.”

“It’s alright,” Tony gripes just as Clint returns with their drinks. He wrinkles his nose at the Bloody Mary set in front of him, but then he takes a huge swig of it, like someone settling for what he can get. “I’m already on their shit list. Might as well make the most of it.”

Steve’s too worried at the sudden shift in Tony’s demeanor to chastise him for swearing again. Natasha’s not so inhibited. “You always curse in front of kids?”

“Don’t have enough information to answer that,” Tony says smartly, setting the nearly drained glass back to the table. “Based on today’s minimal dataset and previous behavior patterns, though, I’m going to go with yes.”

Natasha’s brilliant green eyes flash. God, Tony’s not doing himself any favors with his attitude right now. Thankfully, Bucky intervenes. He shoots Steve a tense glance as he asks, “So what does bring you to Florida? I mean, I know your yacht had some engine trouble, which is how you ran into Steve, but why were you here originally?”

That seems like an innocuous question, one Steve should have probably asked before (God knows he’s wondered). With the way Tony’s jaw clenches and his eyes darken, it’s anything but. “It’s not my yacht.” He sucks the last of the Bloody Mary down, expression scrunching as he does. “Well, I guess it is now. I love things that go fast, and it’s a nice enough thing, but sailing was never much my thing. Anyway, what brought me here?” He considers that, but it’s done in jest. “I have to be honest. It’s a bit of a blur.”

Natasha coolly cocks an eyebrow, lifting her cup to her lips to blow on the brew. “A blur?”

“Yeah, you know. A blur. Started with a call. Then there was a wake. A funeral.” Steve tenses and looks up from where he was anxiously studying a stain on the table. Tony presses his lips together. “A bunch of people spewing a bunch of useless crap. Lawyers handing me things. A lot of calls. A lot of expectations. You know, he’s barely cold in the ground, and I’m already being told that I have to take his place, and you’d _think_ after all the time I’ve had to prepare, I’d be ready. But I wasn’t. Shocking, right.”

It is shocking. This is the first time since they met that Tony seems well and truly upset. Bitter and barely hiding it. Emotional rather than just flirty and cocksure. Vulnerable. It’s such a dizzying switch that Steve doesn’t know what to make of it. Tony goes on quickly. “And then there are more calls and meetings and more stuff being handed to me… I don’t like stuff being handed to me. I don’t _like_ it, okay.” It’s not clear what _it_ is, but Steve’s thinking it can’t just be about getting handed things. “So I bailed. I left. In a blur. Took the yacht that’s now mine and just… sailed off into the sunset. Or tried to, anyway. But I can’t even do that right, I guess, or fate hates me, and the boat breaks, and I was thinking about just fixing it myself, only…” He sighs. “What’s the point.”

Aching inside, Steve winces. There’s so much pain behind Tony’s words. He’s not sure what spawned this misery, but it’s there, and it’s raw and distressing. This is not the man he went out with last night, the one who’s been charming his socks off for days, the one who seems to be able to do anything and handle anyone. Tony heaves another heavy breath. “You guys think I’m useless and entitled, right, that I’ve had everything in my life handed to me. That I’m a spoiled screw-up. Well, maybe you’re right. So far, I’m pretty shitty at my job. Case in point.”

The table is silent. Bucky and Natasha are glancing at each other, questioning but not quite concerned. For his own part, Steve’s gone from moderately worried to incredibly worried. “Tony, we don’t think that,” he says, not allowing the others a chance to argue. “And, like I said, if you have to go, you should go.”

He says that, but he sure doesn’t expect Tony to agree just like that, not after putting up with so much and brushing so many things off. But he does, _just like that_ , standing up with his chair scraping loudly over the floor. “You know what,” he breathes. “Maybe you’re right. A poor, little, rich boy’s personal stuff. Who wants to hear about that? Sob stories are shit.” Steve jerks, hurt, and Tony pulls out his wallet. He’s yanking out a bunch of bills. He’s getting ready to run away.

“Stop!”

The booming shout from the other side of the restaurant grabs their attention. Steve turns in his chair to see Thor, of all people, practically running toward them. He has a massive stride, so he’s absolutely devouring the distance. “You. Stark!” he calls, and he seems a tad breathless. He’s as disheveled as he usually is, his tangled mane of blond hair unbound and his shorts and shirt ratty and rumpled, like he just threw it on to get dressed as fast as possible. “I need to speak with you!”

 _Oh, shit._ This is _not_ what they need, not another argument, another person giving Tony a hard time because he’s famous and notorious and rich. Steve has no idea how Thor knew where they are. He also doesn’t know what’s got Thor all hot and bothered now, but if his behavior from earlier in the week is any indication, another confrontation isn’t going to go well. That promise he made to himself earlier… He’ll throw himself between Thor and Tony if he has to.

He nearly does, because Thor practically stomps over, and it seems for a split second like the huge guy is going to throttle Tony. However, that’s not what happens at all. Tony’s cringing, and Steve’s almost panicking, but Thor just wraps Tony into his massive arms.

It’s a _hug_ , not an attack.

That’s downright mind-blowing. Tony is stiff in Thor’s embrace, his face taut with complete shock, and Thor rocks them both, patting Tony’s back. “Uh… okay?”

“You saved him,” Thor proclaims, squeezing Tony seemingly to within an inch of his life. “You saved him!”

“Who?” Bucky demands, standing and clearly totally perplexed.

Thor laughs. “My brother, Loki!”

It takes Steve a second to make the connection. Tony’s been with him since last night, so unless he ran into Thor’s brother between the day the two of them met and their date… _The date._ The guy at the casino. The one who’d tried to rob Tony. The one they’d bailed out of trouble. The ne’er-do-well Thor always talks about, complains about with that long-suffering love of a worried sibling. The trouble-maker. _Loki Laufeyson._ “That was _your_ brother?”

Thor finally stops squishing Tony. “Indeed!” he says as he pulls back. “After he was ejected from the gaming ship in St. Petersburg, he was without funds, so he actually called me. That’s not the first time he has after getting himself into trouble, so I expected the worst, to have to bail him jail or some such. But he was alright, and when I came to get him, he was very different. I could sense it almost immediately. In the past, when I have rescued him from a such a situation, he’s been angry. Bitter and cruel. But he was not last night. He was calm and quiet. Changed, in a way. He allowed me to bring him home, and he stayed the night, and even this morning he was… pensive. Reflective.” Thor’s smile couldn’t have been bigger and more relieved. “I couldn’t fathom what could have so completely altered his attitude, and then he told me of your generosity, that you absolved him of his malfeasance and saved him from more disgrace. You showed him kindness when he did not deserve it, and if a complete stranger could find it within himself to care about him, perhaps he should care more for himself, no matter what our father believes. And–”

“Wait, wait.” Tony pales as he shakes his head. His eyes dart to Steve. “That wasn’t me. That wasn’t–”

“No need for modesty!” Thor proclaims as he hugs Tony again. “Clearly I have misjudged you! I’m deeply sorry for that. You must understand, my brother’s troubles with our father are so deeply set, and they have scarred him. Whatever you said, whatever you _did,_ you showed him a better path than self-destruction.”

Smooshed against Thor’s chest, Tony struggles, shaking his head. “But I didn’t–”

“You did! And you did more for him in one brief encounter than I have managed in _years._ I had sworn off ever getting through to him, but you showed him the err in his ways.”

Steve frowns. This whole thing is pretty incredible, but that seems like too much optimism. “Thor, it’s not that easy.”

Again, Thor releases Tony. “Oh, I appreciate that. I’m not that naïve. And I know my brother too well to think this is the end of his struggles. But still…” His eyes actually seem teary. “I can never repay you for giving him a chance. For helping him see there’s another path.”

Tony is simply silent. His mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are wide. He’s gob-smacked. Utterly flabbergasted. Everyone is staring at him in a mixture of shock, wonder, and confusion. “I didn’t… I mean, it wasn’t…”

“It was Tony’s money,” Steve throws in. Obviously Thor misunderstood his brother’s tale. Or, for whatever reason, Laufeyson didn’t tell Thor everything. Whatever the reason for the confusion, Steve wants to keep it that way. “He’s very generous. I told him it was crazy to bail out someone we didn’t know, but he just wanted to help.”

“And I wish to help you. I shall pay for your breakfast.” Thor opens his arms to the table. “All of you! It is the least I can do.”

It seems, in the long, quiet moment that follows, that Tony’s going to deny everything again and disclaim the credit Thor’s trying to heap upon him. Steve doesn’t breathe, holding Maggie’s hand and glancing around their group worriedly and _praying_ his friends let him have this. They do, and Tony capitulates. “Uh, thanks,” he finally manages. Flustered is an unusual but somehow attractive look on him. So is surprised. He goes to sit back down, tentatively but not unhappily. “You want to join us?”

Thor grins. “Verily.”

With that, the whole mood of the table changes. It’s not abrupt, even with Thor as loud and gregarious as he normally is. All the ill-will he harbored for Tony earlier that week appears to have vanished, gone like it was never there to begin with. Having him there and so openly grateful toward Tony also encourages Bucky and Natasha to let down their guards and open up, which is fantastic. As Clint brings over trays and trays of breakfast food, the tension eases further, and they begin offering information about themselves. Of course, it helps that Maggie’s mood immediately perks up, and she’s talking about the things Tony told her and school and just about anything that goes through her head (a stream of consciousness that thankfully does _not_ include the morning’s disaster). Her joy softens the others. Clint sits down and dishes out omelettes and bacon and shrimp and grits onto old, chipped plates that match the décor of his restaurant. Eggs and waffles and Maggie’s pancakes follow, steeped in butter and syrup. There are seemingly gallons of coffee. Thor digs in, and pretty soon, everyone is eating and chatting. It’s surface small talk, who you are and what you do for a living, but compared to the tense, judgmental misery of earlier, it’s amazing. Even Natasha is speaking about her work at the Seaside Seabird Sanctuary, the types of birds she rescues and for which she cares, what happens to them once they’re released back into the wild, and so forth. Bucky is going into his life as Steve’s best friend and Maggie’s babysitter. He gets comfortable, puts his good arm around Natasha, making it obvious they’re a couple even though Steve never strictly told Tony that.

Tony doesn’t say much, though. He’s oddly quiet and reserved and probably overwhelmed. Maybe embarrassed that he let down his guard, let the truth peek through the mask of money and fame and complete nonchalance. Steve doesn’t like the uncertain expression on his face, how he seems kind of lost in thought in a way Steve hasn’t seen before, in a way Steve didn’t imagine he could. Maybe it’s not right to, but Steve reaches under the table and grips Tony’s thigh in a show of comfort. Tony startles just a bit, snapping from his reverie. He does that to Steve’s encouraging smile. Steve makes sure of that, and when he does, Tony offers a little grin of his own.

After that, it’s like his weak moment before never happened. He’s eating and he’s chatting, too. He’s light and airy and confident. He’s back to the powerful person he usually is. Steve watches a moment as he speaks. He’s not talking down to his friends but rather at their level, and there’s this equality that naturally comes from that. Steve sits back and watches as Maggie eats pancakes on Thor’s lap and babbles, and Thor laughs jovially, and Bucky’s smiling and on his second helping of shrimp and grits, and Clint’s at ease with them and laughing, and even Natasha seems… comfortable. She’s still scrutinizing Tony, but it’s not with as much open hostility as before. She’s looking at him as less of a threat and more of a mystery. That’s an improvement.

The _whole thing’s_ an improvement, softly and gradually, and all the sudden Steve can relax, too. Finally. He leans back and looks at his friends and his kid and this new presence in his life. It doesn’t quite seem real, because this feels… _good_. That’s what it is. It feels really good. It’s not the same kind of good he knew with Peggy, but it’s nice and meaningful and right. For once, all his worries kind of melt away, and he’s just enjoying his breakfast and listening and watching and _not_ thinking. Not feeling so uncertain and inadequate. Just being who he is and being okay with that.

Eventually, the pancakes are gone. So are the eggs and bacon and grits. The coffee’s dwindling in nearly empty cups. The conversation’s dying, too. The group of them sits there, and it becomes obvious the adults are waiting for someone to make a move. Oblivious, Maggie’s still chatting, and she does until Thor shifts her from his lap. “Well, I must be off before my brother escapes me again.” He stands, and for a second it seems like he’s going to leap across the table to hug Tony once more. Instead he simply smiles and reaches his hand out. Tony stands, too. “Again, thank you so much, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony’s fine,” Tony says, shaking his hand. He smiles, too. “And you’re welcome.”

Then Thor’s nodding to Steve and giving Maggie a hug before walking toward Clint to pay for the breakfast as promised. It’s nice that Steve doesn’t have to worry about that, about keeping his promise to himself that Tony not cover this. And it’s nice that things went so well. Natasha and Bucky take Thor’s departure as their cue to leave as well, which effectively ends the meal. After thanking Clint, they all walk out together.

“Well,” Bucky says as they reach the parking lot. “Can’t say this morning started out great.” Steve turns to him, expecting some sort of harsh comment about Tony now that things are winding down. Instead he just looks a bit sheepish. “But it ended up pretty good. Weird, but good.”

“See, Bucket?” Maggie says, and she’s tugging on Bucky’s hand. “You can be nice.”

Bucky chuckles, rolling his eyes a little. Now he’s blushing. “Yeah. Apparently. With a good example.” He winks at her.

“Here,” Natasha calls, drawing closer. “I have some of your things in the car.” The two of them go to Natasha’s beat-up sedan and start rifling in the backseat.

As they do that, Bucky sighs and steps closer to Steve and Tony. “So… You going back home?”

It’s not clear to whom that question’s directed. Tony doesn’t answer, so Steve does. “I don’t know yet. Probably.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Well, see you there. You ready, Nat?” Maggie comes running back with her backpack, and Natasha nods. She waits by the driver door to their car. Bucky nods. “Okay. See you around, Stark.” That’s noncommittal, and Bucky looks pained, like he’s not sure what he wants. Eventually he turns to leave.

“Hey,” Tony calls, taking a step after him. He pulls off the sunglasses he slid on when they stepped outside and hesitates a second. “I was, uh… When I was being a–” He stops himself, glancing at Maggie where she’s stepping on Steve’s feet. “… a jerk before, I said you should get a replacement.” He tips his chin towards Bucky’s missing arm. “You can, you know. If you’re interested.”

Horror crosses Bucky’s face. Steve recognizes it clear as day. It’s the same fear and pain that always comes whenever he’s faced with the prospect of dealing with his trauma. He hides and feigns lack of understanding. “Huh?”

“Stark Industries deals in more than telecom. We’ve acquired multiple biomedical companies, and I know a couple of them specialize in state-of-the-art prosthetics.” Tony gives a small grin, and now he looks sheepish. “It’d, uh, still just take a phone call. A nicer one. And it wouldn’t cost you anything.”

Bucky’s about to object to that. That’s the same thing, too, what he always does whenever someone suggests he do things for himself, counseling or therapy or trying to cope with his loss. Plus there’s the added aspect of the charity. He and Steve are alike in that way. And the added suspicion he may have of Tony doing this with some ulterior motive. Steve may be convinced that Tony doesn’t, but Bucky probably isn’t. Why would he be?

He doesn’t object, though, or argue. His jaw tightens, but he nods. “Thanks.” It’s not agreement, but it’s something.

Tony nods, too. “Okay.”

Bucky hesitates a moment more. Then he manages a smile and goes to get in the car. Steve pulls Maggie closer to make sure she stays put as Natasha starts the engine and backs out of their spot. Then they’re off.

It’s quiet save for the birds and the bay. Now it’s just the three of them, like it was first thing that morning. Things feel wildly different. Steve turns back to Tony, unsure again. “Well, that went okay, I think?”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

Tony shakes his head. “It’s the same thing as last night. The same thing!” He steps closer, flustered once more. _Bewildered._ “Jesus, Steve… It wasn’t me who bailed out your buddy’s brother. You lied to them.”

Steve gives a small smile. “I told you I wasn’t always honest.”

“You are when it counts, I think,” Tony replies. Obviously awestruck, he blows out a breath. “How can you be this nice? I just… You let me take credit for your good deed.”

“Like that good deed could have happened without your generosity to begin with,” Steve counters. “Look, you think you’re a rich…” He glances at Maggie, who’s watching them both. “… jerk? Well, we’ve been poor jerks. Poor, rude, judgmental jerks. And nobody knows what happened last night on that boat except for you and me. And if a little white lie can convince them that you’re a good guy–”

“Steve–”

“–then what’s the harm in that?”

Tony’s mouth remains open, like he’s going to argue more, but then he slowly closes it. “Validation, huh.”

Steve holds his gaze, nodding. “Yep. And as far as that other thing goes… the personal stuff.” Tony’s face tenses, and he winces. Steve offers a disarming smile. “If you want to tell me more, I’ll listen. But otherwise it never happened.”

A quiet moment passes, a moment filled with Tony clearly grappling with his embarrassment, with the opportunity and choice to say more. He doesn’t do that, but eventually he smiles back. “It never happened.” Then he steps closer and kisses him. It’s not a timid kiss, either. They’re in the middle of a parking lot, right on the side of a busy harbor, in full view of anyone looking, and Tony Stark is kissing him. Despite being out last night, they were never like this in front of other people. This is… incredible. Terrifying. _Electrifying._ They’re kissing and kissing, and Steve can’t help but succumb.

“Didn’t you guys get enough of that done last night?” Maggie whines, pushing impatiently between them.

Steve pulls away with a bit of a gasp. “Not sure, Peg-Leg,” Tony jokes. Just like that, he’s back to himself. “You remember what I told you, huh? This morning?” Those dark brown eyes are utterly entrancing, staring at Steve so intently. “When you’re really intrigued by something, you have to study it until you understand it completely. Until you fully appreciate all the complexities and all the simplicities. All of the beauty. You have to study it until it’s a part of you. Until it’s _yours._ ” Tony grins, showing those perfectly white teeth. “That way you can appreciate it whenever you want.”

There’s no air to breathe, but there’s no need to breathe, either, and Steve’s just staring into Tony’s eyes. He’s falling. He’s not sure that he cares anymore.

“Are we going home now?” Maggie asks.

Tony slides his sunglasses back on. “Unfortunately, Peg-Leg, I think I have to skedaddle. Work and all that. I’ve gotten myself into enough trouble.”

Maggie’s face immediately fractures in misery again. “No,” she moans. “No.”

Tony reaches down to pet her head. “Duty calls.”

Tears well in Maggie’s eyes, and Steve can certainly sympathize. It’s dizzying, just how high he was flying seconds ago and just how fast his spirits are plummeting now. “You really have to?”

“Yeah.” Tony takes Steve’s hand, a callused thumb rubbing over Steve’s knuckles. “But there’s the next step. If that’s something you want to take. Considering we broke all the rules on the first date, it’ll be hard to follow that up, but I’m game if you are.” He gives a cheeky grin that doesn’t quite hide how hopeful he is. “Are you, Steve Rogers the boat mechanic?” That smile gets wider. “Hot, single dad?” Steve burns bright with another blush. God, the stupid _blushing…_ He can’t stop, no matter how far this goes.

But Tony seems to love it, and he pours on the charm, tugging Steve closer anew, staring with those fascinating eyes. “What do you think?”

Steve smiles. He doesn’t think, not at all. “What are you doing next weekend?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, we are slowly getting to the actual plot of this story :-P Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Weeks fly by. As crazy as this thing with Tony started, it quickly settles into a very steady and almost perfect routine. During the week, Maggie goes to school and Steve works at the marina. Tony comes on the weekends. Monday through Friday, he’s all over the world, but like clockwork he’s in Pinellas County, Florida at the Seaside Manor by Friday evening. It’s incredible. Steve knows for a fact he’s traveling like mad. He calls from Milan and Prague and Tokyo. New York and Chicago and Malibu. He checks in through the video chat feature on Maggie’s new tablet almost every day, which is pretty astounding (not only that he does it but that he does it at _their_ convenience, when more than once it’s the middle of the night wherever he is). Steve would be a liar if he was to say he wasn’t worried Tony would leave and then _not_ call, let alone come back. He was clearly in trouble with his work that morning he left from the NockingPoint (trouble that his being with Steve caused), not to mention the mess that whole experience was with Steve’s friends. And not to mention his little impromptu moment of weakness. _And_ not to mention all of Steve’s baggage. If he needed a compelling reason to bail out on a bad situation, any one of those would suffice.

But he doesn’t bail out on them. That’s pretty much the ultimate test of his sincerity, and he passed it with flying colors, calling that Saturday night on that tablet he left. He was all bright eyes and smiles. He was funny, witty, and charming. Maggie talked and talked with him that night, going on and on about her tablet, about the documents he put on there for her to read. Stuff about some of Tony’s inventions apparently. Steve fried up some grilled cheese and opened up a can of tomato soup for dinner while he listened to them chat. It was remarkable then, and it still it, just how much Tony seems to act like Maggie is… well, not quite an adult. Still, he’s not terribly silly or frivolous with her. Not that Steve is, either, or Bucky or Nat really. Maggie’s very mature, so it’s hard to treat her as what she is: a little kid. Tony talks with her like she’s his sidekick? That’s the closest conclusion Steve can come to. A lab partner or a buddy or someone who’s a co-conspirator in his grandest plots. They discuss computers and tech and physics and mathematics almost constantly, sometimes late into the evening so that Steve has to turn off her tablet and bustle her off to sleep. Tony whines about it almost as much as she does.

And it seems like Tony genuinely looks forward to coming almost as much as they do. He usually arrives Friday afternoon and leaves Sunday night. Friday night Bucky tends to give to Steve, taking Maggie to his place so Steve can be alone with Tony. Bucky wasn’t too happy about that at first; it was pretty obvious from his frown, one so big it furrowed his forehead, that he was hoping this whole thing would blow over, that Tony would just go back to New York or California or wherever and not come back. He hasn’t been outwardly hostile about it like he was that first day, but Steve knows him too well to think he’s abandoned his reservations. On top of that, it seems to Steve (though Bucky hasn’t said anything one way or another) that Tony’s offer is bothering him. To be fair, it’s a huge thing. Tony probably had no idea what he would be truly giving Bucky when he made it. It was simply another gift to him. Natasha had grumbled in the days after that that it was probably just another way to bribe them all into buying that he’s a decent person. Steve ardently thought otherwise, but he couldn’t deny there was a lot wrapped up logistically and emotionally in Bucky getting a new arm, let alone a new arm for free.

Regardless, Bucky’s a good enough guy to offer babysitting so Steve can have time with Tony. They go out. Tony knows all the nicest spots in St. Petersburg and Tampa, the fanciest restaurants and best hotels. Steve finds himself revisiting Men’s Wearhouse for more slacks and dress shirts and even a sport coat. He could tell one night early on in this pattern that Tony wants to take him somewhere to his standards and really dress him, buy him much nicer stuff, but Tony never says anything as they go out to five star eateries and really nice venues. Steve’s still not entirely comfortable with all of it, frequenting these swanky places that he’s never imagined visiting in his life and the fact he’s doing it all on the arm of Tony Stark. Not once has he seen the paparazzi despite Tony’s warning that first date. Tony never seems concerned, nor do Tony’s drivers, which makes Steve wonder if Tony hasn’t arranged somehow to keep the public and press away. If he has, he’s done it so well that Steve can’t tell the difference, which probably should be comforting, and it is, but it’s also a reminder of just how powerful Tony is. The world bends around him, and he makes it look effortless.

And he makes Steve feel incredible. One would think that a few weeks into this, he’d be used to what Tony does, who he is, what he offers, but Steve absolutely is not. It’s been obvious from the get-go, but Tony is probably the most generous person Steve’s ever met. Every time he comes, it’s with gifts for Maggie, and they’re from all over the world. Dolls from Paris and books from Japan and jewelry from Rio. A telescope (not a cheap one) and a laptop. Steve’s still not crazy about her being spoiled like this, but he knows it’s not because Tony is trying to win her over or buy her affection or manipulate either of them. He just gives because that’s second nature to him. It’s the same thing with the nice dinners and expensive hotels. He wants the best for Steve, and it’s easily attainable, so he offers it without thinking twice. Steve’s not used to taking things like this, but with Tony, he stops fighting against it so much. He doesn’t have much of a choice, because being with Tony still sends his brain reeling too much to function. Every Friday Tony treats him to the best and takes him to a lavish hotel or resort. They sleep together (since that first disastrous time, Steve insists Tony never spend the night at the Seaside Manor – that was too hellishly embarrassing to even think about repeating). It doesn’t take long at all for Steve to discover that there’s pretty much nothing else in the world like being intimate with Tony. That mind-blowing experience of their first date turned out to the first of many, the first of _every_ time. Tony’s just as compassionate and giving as a lover as he was that night, as he is about everything else. Never once has he made Steve feel like he’s not experienced, like he’s something to be used, like he’s anything less than perfect. Steve’s rapidly learning, getting more confident, more comfortable, more _ruined_ for anyone else. Ever.

He’s falling. Hard. He’s starting not to care about hanging onto that edge, not anymore.

So the routine feels really good. _He_ feels really good. He works, and Maggie goes to school, and they chat with Tony over the StarkPad most nights, and they wait every week for him to come. Tony and Steve have their date, and they return Saturday morning in time to take Maggie to brunch. Bucky doesn’t always join them, but he does enough that it’s not quite so miserable for him and Tony to be together anymore. Then they go back to Steve’s apartment, and Tony and Maggie spend the afternoon and evening talking science in person. Tony always has something new to explore with her, quantum mechanics and advanced calculus and things no five year-old should know. Maggie does seem to know, though. This is beyond simple curiosity, though that alone is really remarkable for a kid. She’s learning from him, sure, but she’s _capable_ of learning from him. That’s just incredible. Seeing their chats in person brings this into vividly sharp focus. Steve hasn’t really realized until now, until seeing her with Tony like this, what that means. She’s like Tony.

Smart like Tony.

After that, they have dinner. They usually order something in. It’s low-brow, pizza or Chinese or other take-out, but Tony never complains or even bats an eye. Then they watch a movie or play a board game or go down to the marina to walk on the beach. Steve’s constantly worried Tony will get bored with it, but he doesn’t seem to. He really seems to enjoy being with them, which is pretty shocking for a man with that much money and power and class, who can do anything he wants all the time. Steve doesn’t dare ask him about that (or about much of anything), too afraid he’ll disturb how perfect this is. All impossible as it seems, Tony has fit right into their lives, and Steve’s too surprised and amazed and enthralled to want to question why. This all feels so new, simultaneously tentative but somehow so certain, moving quickly yet not at all frightening. It’s a bit like a dream. School’s going well, and work is good, and Tony’s amazing, and this feeling of contentment comes over Steve. Like he doesn’t have to worry, not even about Tony losing interest. He knows he should, about that and Maggie and everything else, but he feels like he doesn’t _need_ to. He doesn’t want to. He’s just letting himself enjoy this, and for the first time in forever…

He’s happy.

“Hey, Thor?” Steve calls. He’s picking through one of their supply shelves to find a new water pump. “I thought we ordered a bunch of 3GPMs from West Marine.”

Thor’s at one of the work benches, unscrewing the lid from a propeller drive. “We did.”

Steve glances at him and smiles. Thor’s stuffing Golden Grahams in his mouth with every twist of his screwdriver. He’s also got headphones on (ones from the 90s that look so ragged and old), and Steve can hear Guns N’ Roses from over on his end of the workshop. Thor’s been in an exceptionally good mood the last few weeks, ever since the situation with his brother. Steve hasn’t seen Laufeyson, and he really hasn’t questioned Thor about how it’s going. That’s another area at which he’s not willing to poke in the event things aren’t going as well as they seem to be. “Well, did you stock them? Because I can’t find any.”

Thor chews loudly, crunching away at the cereal before turning to Steve more fully. “Can’t remember.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“You do a far better job at book-keeping than I, my friend.”

“Because I actually do it?”

Thor swallows and grins. “Bingo.”

Steve groans. “Lazy. So damn lazy.”

Thor’s grin is positively shit-eating. “It is a way of life,” he boasts, and Steve laughs, knocking him in the shoulder as he goes by. Outside the shop, the day is very bright and hot. He stands in the morning sun for a moment, surveying the row of boats outside. It gives him a little pause, because business is decent but not great. A lot of the work he had in September is done, and things have been slow since. It’s not terribly concerning; there are definitely slow patches with this job, even though boating and fishing is hardly seasonal in Florida. It’s usually attributable to plain, old luck, and work always comes back. Still, he can’t help a little concerned thought – _another holiday season with belts tight, in all likelihood_ – before heading to their office.

Which has reached a catastrophic level of mess and disorder. “A way of life, huh,” Steve grumbles as he heads into the back. There are boxes everywhere. These last weeks as Thor’s descended even further into his happy-go-lucky demeanor, his slobby tendencies have risen at a commensurate rate. Steve never realized it was possible for him to be more disorganized, but the evidence is piled up everywhere in boxes that have yet to be unpacked and papers that have yet to be filed. He sighs, starting with a pile of boxes that are closest to the door and have clearly been shipped here. Some are open and some aren’t. He carries a couple over to the counter to take inventory of what’s inside, scribbling his findings down on a pad beside the ancient computer. Maybe a slow period with work won’t be so bad. At least he’ll have time to organize this disaster.

He’s about halfway through the nearest tower when he hears someone come in. “I’ll be right there to help you! Just a–”

“Oh, I need help,” Tony replies where he’s standing in the entrance. He’s right in the doorway, and the morning sun comes in behind him, and he’s absolutely glowing. It makes the dark of his hair even more so, richer, and his normally olive skin shines gold. He’s grinning that Cheshire-cat grin of his, and he’s wearing a gray suit with a red shirt and silver tie. He looks divine.

Just the sight of him has this rush of heat burning through Steve, and his heart starts pounding. He sets the box down and smiles widely, coming closer. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

Tony steps all the way inside. He pulls off his sunglasses, revealing those gorgeous brown eyes of his, and his smile turns smug and excited at once. “Trip to Chicago got canceled, so I thought I’d come down early.”

The mere fact that Tony is there is mind-blowing enough, but the added fact that apparently his business in Chicago isn’t happening so he decided to visit early, that he chose in his free time to come see Steve instead of going home or doing anything else… That’s all kinds of amazing. Then there’s the fact that Tony is dressed like a million dollars and Steve’s in stained khaki shorts and an old gray t-shirt that he has on inside out because this way actually looks better… Par for the course at this point. It doesn’t bother Steve too much anymore, not as he steps closer and gives Tony a kiss. “Best thing I’ve heard all week,” he says, unable to hide his breathless excitement.

“Me too,” Tony gasps, grabbing him by his ratty t-shirt and pulling him back in for another kiss, this one deeper and longer. Yet again, Steve’s completely swept up in how _good_ Tony makes him feel, that electrifying jolt of need narrowing his world until all he can focus on is Tony Tony _Tony_. Tony’s hands go to his rear, sliding into the back pockets of his shorts to caress and grab. “In fact,” he murmurs against Steve’s lips, “I had a great idea on the way down here. Thought maybe I could steal you away. Convince you to take the day off.”

Steve hums to that. “To do what?”

“Oh, go back to your place.” Tony pinches playfully. It’s a good thing there’s no one around to see them (even if they’re practically making out in the entrance to the shop) because Steve very nearly lets out an undignified squeak. Tony chuckles, kissing at his jaw. “Have some afternoon delight?”

“It’s not even eleven,” Steve comments, threading his fingers through Tony’s hair. It’s hard to think, let alone talk, when Tony does things like this. “And Maggie will be home from school.”

“Yeah, at three or something,” Tony argues, and the not-quite-gentle kisses he’s pressing to the sensitive spots on his throat should be illegal. That always sends Steve’s blood rushing from his brain even more. It’s amazing how quickly Tony has learned to drive him mad, and he does it relentlessly. “Which is _hours_ from now.”

That’s true enough. Steve winces though, and this nervousness zings through him. He must stiffen because Tony looks back. His eyes are filled with worry and just a touch of impatience. “What? You want to go to a hotel instead?”

“No, no,” Steve replies, though he’s still not quite comfortable with doing this sort of stuff at home. He’s been trying hard to keep his relationship with Tony very chaste around Maggie for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which being that he doesn’t want the daughter of his former fiancée see him romantically involved with anyone else. That’s all in his head, and it’s stupid, and he knows it, but it feels just a bit like dishonoring Peggy. “No, it’s just… You know. A workday.”

Tony rolls his eyes. It’s clear he doesn’t know. “I can pay you what you would have made, babe. More than.”

Despite everything, Tony being so _okay_ with Steve’s common lifestyle and frugal existence, there are still times when that rich boy attitude peeks through. This is one. Paying to take Steve to a hotel is another. Steve knows it’s not on purpose, but it feels just a touch dirty and degrading, _still_ a bit like Tony’s trying to buy him. He’s trying to figure out what to say when Tony tugs him closer by the belt loops on his shorts. “Take a day off,” he purrs instead, right into Steve’s ear even though he needs to lean up a bit to reach.

Steve can’t stop a frown, even with pleasure starting to make his sight hazy again. “What about my truck?”

Tony’s lips are light on the hinge of his jaw, a gentle nibble. “We’ll come back and get it later.” Steve’s hands go to Tony’s shoulders as he presses even closer. He slides his mouth to Steve’s for another kiss, one that’s even less reserved, and Steve groans into it. “Come on,” Tony says when he pulls back for a breath. “You always worry too much.”

All it takes another second of Tony staring at him with that cocksure grin and hunger in his eyes, of him pulling at Steve’s hips in a ridiculously suggestive manner, for every one of Steve’s doubts to disappear. “Alright, let me – _God_ – tell Thor.”

“Can’t help it,” Tony husks into his cheek, leaning away from the earlobe he was teasing. “You drive me crazy.”

The way Tony says these things – playfully, mischievously, but so completely _genuinely_ – always takes Steve aback. Like what he said after the first time they slept together. Like all his nicknames, _gorgeous_ and _sweetheart_ and _darling._ Silly endearments, but they make Steve’s world spin.

So Steve leans in and takes another kiss, one that Tony returns enthusiastically, before he rushes back to the workshop. He doesn’t even bother with an excuse; Tony’s red sports car is visible from the garage of the shop, and he probably can’t hide his flushed face (or what’s going on below the belt), so he just tells Thor the truth. Thor’s in such a willy-nilly mood that he just laughs and teases Steve about being at his billionaire boyfriend’s beck and call, and normally that kind of comment wouldn’t sit well with Steve even in jest, but right now he _is_ at Tony’s beck and call, so he runs out and gets into Tony’s car and they race off.

It’s a good thing the Seaside Manor isn’t far from the marina. The anticipation between them is practically sizzling for the fifteen minutes it takes them to get there, which is why those fifteen minutes feel like forever. They’re barely out of the car and inside Steve’s place before they’re all over each other, staggering through the kitchen and living room to Steve’s bedroom. Tony’s yanking Steve’s t-shirt over his head as they gracelessly stumble. Steve laughs into his lips, barely keeping his balance as he tries to kick his sneakers off while attacking Tony’s belt. Clothes are dropped left and right, Tony’s expensive suit and dress shirt dumped haphazardly on the floor with the mess of Steve’s other laundry that he didn’t bother to pick up that morning. And his bed’s not made, but he can’t care as Tony pushes him down on his back. Now Tony’s grin is feral. He stands there in only his boxers, and he’s so damn beautiful that Steve can’t hardly think at all.

Tony’s smile softens. “What?”

He must have been staring. “Nothing,” he finally stammers, breathless. “Nothing. I just…”

Tony climbs over him, kissing him gently. “Can’t believe how awesome I am? How devilishly handsome? How incredibly sexy?”

Steve laughs, wriggling just a bit when Tony squeezes his hands between him to undo the button and fly of his pants. “Can’t believe you want me,” he corrects, and all that delicious heat boils higher when Tony gets his pants open and tugs them down. “Can’t believe that.”

“You better,” Tony teases as he kisses his way down Steve’s bare chest. “Been dreaming about this all week. Dreaming about you. Good thing that meeting got canceled, because they would have been talking to me, asking me stuff, and I would’ve been a complete embarrassment, totally useless because all I’ve been doing is fantasizing.”

Pleasure coils tight inside, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut. His fingers find the thickness of Tony’s hair. “Oh, God…”

Tony peeks up just to smirk. “God can make fantasies into a reality.”

Steve’s about to make a snarky remark, about how that’s nearly the lamest comment ever, but he can’t because Tony’s mouth is on him, and that heat explodes, and his world just melts away.

After that, they’re lying in his bed, sweaty and spent, tangled up in the sheets and each other. Steve’s still hazy with fading bliss, content just to lay there and run his hand up and down Tony’s spine. Tony collapsed onto his chest when they finished, and now he’s just laying there, head on Steve’s stomach. He’s rubbing his thumb on Steve’s abs, idly tracing the shape of them. Steve’s drifting in that, the comforting sweep of his finger. He may moan a little as he does.

There’s a chuckle against his belly and the press of lips. “You okay there?”

Steve hums. He feels indolent and slow and sweet, like molasses dripping from a spoon. “Yeah. Just… never felt like this before.”

He can practically feel Tony grin in satisfaction in the next kiss to his stomach. “See? I _am_ awesome.”

As if Tony Stark needs him to say that, but he does. “God, you’re… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Like you’ve had sex more in the last couple months than you’ve had in years?”

“More like ever.”

“Really good sex, too.”

Steve can’t help but laugh. “Hell, yeah.”

Tony kisses his stomach again. For a moment, it’s quiet. Steve closes his eyes, and that sense of contentment washes over him anew. He sinks into the bed, into Tony in his arms, and everything else falls away again. It’s not just the sex, though that’s certainly part of it (and he cringes just a bit to think about how right Bucky was about him needing it). It’s this. Tony’s surprising in so many ways, but how… _cuddly_ he is is one the best. Aside from the misunderstanding that first date, they always do this after they make love. Tony sits close to him on the couch when they watch movies, even with Maggie there, her curled into Steve’s one side and Tony on the other. Or when they go out, if they’re alone (and sometimes when they’re not too), they hold hands. Or when they sleep together, Tony’s always right next to him, wanting to be held, wanting to hold Steve. Big spoon or little spoon, it doesn’t matter; he clings to Steve at night. He’s very handsy. That’s what it is more than the sex, the physical comfort of having someone close, someone touching him, someone who wants to be touched by him. _That’s_ what he’s been missing more than anything else. It’s weird, because he didn’t know how much he needed it, how much it hurt not to have it, until he had it back. Now that he does…

“It’s not just about the sex, though.”

Steve opens his eyes. He leans up just a bit to look down at Tony, who turns to look up at him. “That’s weird. I was just thinking the same thing.”

“ESP comes with my set of god powers,” Tony quips, and Steve slides his hand up his back to whap his head lightly. Tony grins, but the light shifts in his eyes. “Seriously, though. It’s not. I want you to know that.”

“I know that.”

“I didn’t just run down here for this. Well.” He tips his head as he considers that. “Okay, maybe a little. But that’s not the only reason, not even close. I, uh…” He reaches a hand up to caress Steve’s cheek, thumb drifting through his beard to cross his lower lip. “It’s just really important to me that you understand.”

It’s not too often Tony speaks like this. Sure, he does it with the same flippancy and nonchalance and charm he always does, but that mask isn’t so infallible. In moments like these, there’s insecurity behind the façade. “Of course I do,” Steve says, and he kisses Tony’s palm. The smile that earns him is sunny and relieved, very genuine again, and Tony leans up to him. They linger like that, sharing these languid, lazy kisses, and Steve’s satisfied to his bones.

“This is why I keep thinking,” Tony murmurs into his lips a moment later, “that you should come to New York.”

Steve pulls away with a groan, and that sense of contentment wavers. “Tony, I told you. I can’t just leave Maggie here like that.”

“And I already told you: bring her with. I don’t mind, and she’ll absolutely love it.”

“I know, you know. I hear you two talking about this all the time. A couple months ago she was constantly beginning for a dog. Now it’s a dog and going to Tony’s workshop in New York.”

“That’s because Tony’s workshop is clearly the coolest place ever,” Tony replies, propping himself up on Steve’s chest to look down on him more firmly. “Come on. It’d do you some good to get away.”

Steve huffs. “Who said I need some good?”

“Me.” Tony drags a finger up and down Steve’s sternum. “Because I want you to have fun. I want to see you having fun. I want to stuff you full of ridiculously good food and watch you gawk at the Met and do all the stupid sight-seeing stuff–”

“I was born and raised in Brooklyn, Tony, remember? I’m not exactly a tourist.”

“–well, then watch Maggie do that and spoil you both rotten.” Tony raises his eyebrows. “I know you don’t like that idea, but it doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it means.”

Heaving a sigh, Steve sits up a little more. “And what does it mean? I don’t like taking advantage of you. I’ve told you that.” _Repeatedly._

“How is me offering you taking advantage of me? Is there some kind of secret poor kid code of ethics here? Because I just don’t get it. I need you to explain it to me.” Steve’s hurt frown has him looking down, a little shameful at least. “Sorry.” He tries for another smile, though this one is more forced. He pulls Steve closer. “Come on, darling. I could make things so much better for you. Easier. At least for one weekend.”

Again there’s so much earnest _want_ in Tony’s eyes, so much confusion and genuine lack of understanding, that it’s hard for Steve to be anything but compliant. “There’s no secret code or whatever. It’s just…” He’s not sure he can explain. It’s not even one thing. There’s the discomfort of Tony spending that much money on him, sure, but it’s not that simple. It’s being completely beholden to him for everything. When Tony takes him out here, he’s still footing the bill for those fancy restaurants and hotel rooms, but at least there’s a sense that Steve _could_ offer him something of his own. His apartment. His car. His things. He can take him to places he knows and can afford. He does on Saturdays. Friday nights, Tony treats, but Saturdays and Sundays… Those are on Steve’s terms. There’s some power in that, some stupid sense of choice. That sense of equal footing, even if it’s hardly true.

In New York, however, he would have nothing to give. The paltry few dollars in his bank account that buys the Chinese and pizza here is worth even less there. He and Maggie would be utterly dependent on Tony, and that’s not a situation Steve wants to be in. And, yeah, maybe these hang-ups are stupid and silly, but he’s taken some pride in the fact that he’s managed _this,_ that he’s a single parent who’s self-sufficient. He can handle Maggie’s needs all by himself.

Of course there’s also the part of him that doesn’t want Maggie’s wants to become Maggie’s needs. He knows Tony’s not intentionally trying to undermine him, but part of him is definitely worried that the longer this goes on, the more likely it is that she’s going to become accustomed to a lifestyle that Steve can’t provide. That may be stupid too, but he’s worried about it. And then, _of course_ , there are his normal worries. Maggie hasn’t ever been outside their county. Things are safe and well-defined down here. In the big city? It’s completely irrational, but what does he know about who may be there? That’s where he ran from six years ago, taking a baby that’s not entirely his with him. It seems foolish to go back.

Steve sighs. “Let me think about it, okay?”

Clearly that’s not the answer Tony wants. He really has been hinting at this trip (subtly and not so subtly) for the last few weeks. “Alright,” he responds glumly, and he slumps into Steve’s side. “Just as a reminder, though, because I’m sure you’ve noticed: I always get what I want. I will wear you down.”

That’s about the least threatening threat ever. “Uh-huh,” Steve says, kissing his hair.

“And Maggie does have a three-day weekend coming up. Just saying.”

Columbus Day is a week from Monday. Maggie’s been reminding him about it nonstop, probably because Tony told her to. “You’re two are a fine pair of co-conspirators.”

Tony’s grin is positively smug where he’s peeking up from Steve’s shoulder. “Yep.” Then he’s kissing there, and the little touch of tension disappears like it was never there at all. Steve groans as Tony sweeps his hand down his belly and under the sheets. That warmth comes back, pooling in his core, and he can’t imagine feeling better than this but he knows he can. He knows Tony can take him even further.

But then Tony stops touching him and leans up, and Steve all but whines in disappointment. “You know,” he starts nonchalantly. He’s being a tease, and he knows it, grinning as he presses his thumb into the meat of Steve’s shoulder. “I keep meaning to ask, but then we get too busy. What’s up with this?”

Steve blows out a breath. “What?”

“This… thing.” Tony pokes his fingers in a little deeper. “Didn’t figure you for a tattoo person.”

He’s too addled to figure out what Tony means for a second. Then he sits up a little, pulling his left arm out to look as if he needs to. “Oh. That’s from when I was in Iraq.”

“Why the circles?” Tony asks, tracing his thumb around the red one.

“It’s a shield, actually,” Steve explains. “After the whole Medal of Honor thing, one of the guys – Gabe – said I should do it.”

Tony’s brow furrows. “A shield?”

“For protecting people.”

“Why the red, white, and blue patriotic motif?”

“Because after we saved the Brits and those civilians, they were calling me Captain America.”

To that, Tony laughs. “What? Like some comic book hero?”

“Yeah, it’s stupid,” Steve agrees, and it is. He’s never liked the attention his choices in that battle got him. “When things went to hell there, and no one could see how to get out of the village because of the fire and smoke and everything else, I grabbed one of our flags from a torched Humvee and used that to lead people. Not sure who came up with the nickname.” He peers down at his own shoulder, at the circular shield with its red, blue, and silver rings and the silver star in the center. “Anyway, we all got drunk after that, and they insisted. Couldn’t exactly say no. I mean, I wasn’t their captain – not really – but they always kinda followed my lead even before the flag thing.”

“They?”

“My unit. The Howling Commandos. See the wings below?” Now Tony sweeps his thumb over that tattoo, the black lines and silver coloring. “Our insignia. I didn’t make that up, either. Not that or the name.”

“And they all got this tattoo.”

“They all have the wings. I’m the only one with the shield.” Suddenly he’s embarrassed, and he rubs a hand over the drawing. It feels like a lifetime ago. That was the night before he met Peggy. Their unit was in London for the ceremony, and they went out drinking. He wasn’t in that deep, but the other guys were, and they wanted this, something to tie them together and commemorate what happened. Steve won the medal, got all those accolades, but they all worked as a team to turn that disaster around. They wanted a symbol to unite them. It’s probably a good thing they did that, because the next day, his life changed forever.

He blows out another breath. “It’s just a dumb thing. Wouldn’t have done it if they hadn’t wanted to.”

“But you’re glad you did,” Tony finishes, and Steve smiles and nods. He is, even if he forgets about the tattoo sometimes. Even if it has just become a part of him and rarely thinks about that or the young kid he was then, that last night he was with all his buddies from the war, that they were all together. A couple years after that he was alone with an infant, Bucky would be missing the very arm they all had tattooed, and that life would be long gone.

“What about this?” Tony’s rubbing along the old, long scar along his upper right thigh. “War wound?”

Steve laughs and takes Tony’s hand from his leg, raising it to kiss his knuckles. “No, not at all. Fell off my bike when I was a kid. Ran into this old wrought-iron fence outside our building.”

“How about this?” Tony turns his hand over to where there’s a faint line on his palm.

“Sliced my hand open couple years back with a paring knife.”

“And this?”

Now he’s pointing to a tiny scar on his arm. Some part of Steve is really shocked that Tony’s noticed all this. He shakes his head. “I don’t even remember how I got that. Probably from working on a boat? No idea. I can tell you the fact that this finger–” He holds up his left ring finger. “–is a little crooked is from jamming it trying to get a bolt out of an engine compartment.”

Tony looks incredulous. “Seriously? No battle scars?”

“Not unless you count the war I lost with the apple I was cutting up for Maggie.”

Tony feigns more shock. Then he’s twisting, climbing on top of Steve and gently pushing him back down into the pillows. Steve groans, heat rushing in his veins anew just like that, as Tony straddles him. “Gotta say I’m _very_ disappointed.”

“You’re disappointed?” Steve says, mock affronted. “Well, what about you?”

Tony cocks an eyebrow. “What about me?”

Steve glances to the sparse smattering of hair on Tony’s chest. There are scars there, right over his sternum. They’re faint, hardly anything, spiderwebs of silvery lines that are long healed and mostly faded into the surrounding skin, but Steve’s noticed them. He noticed them weeks ago, and he tips his chin towards them now. “That?”

It’s hardly perceptible, the way Tony stiffens. If he wasn’t pinning Steve down so intimately, if Steve wasn’t watching him so intently, he may not have noticed that at all. But he does, because Tony’s thighs tighten around his hips, and his smile falters just a bit, and his eyes cloud with what looks like distress, like he didn’t realize his little game could get turned around on him. “That’s not anything.”

It gets awkward. Steve feels like a jerk. He rubs his hands up Tony’s legs, trying to think of what to say. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages.

In a flash, Tony’s grinning. “Nah,” he says, capturing one of Steve’s hands and pulling it up to his mouth for a kiss. He hesitates a second, running his lips over each of Steve’s knuckles, and it seems a second that he’s heading right for intimacy again, but then he sighs and jabs Steve’s fingers right into the spot with the scars. “Okay, this? This was a bunch of stupid bullshit.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Steve assures, a little dizzy again with how fast he’s changing his mind.

“No, it’s cool. You told me about your Captain America thing. It’s only fair.” He leans back to sit on Steve’s legs, and Steve leans up a little. It’s really rare that Tony ever talks about himself, so this feels kind of important. Special. It takes him a second to get going. “So… I’m like twenty-something. Twenty-two? Twenty-three. I don’t know.” It seems like maybe he does know. “I was finishing off school. Second PhD program.” Steve’s eyes widen, and he wants to say something about the fact that Tony has _two_ doctorate degrees, but Tony’s going on before he can. “And I was just kinda hanging around. Nobody seemed to care, and I didn’t care. I was having fun, and it was fine. Then I get this call from my mother. She wants me back in LA, because dad’s about to make this big announcement at the Company Gala, right. She says this is it. He’s going to step down. Give me a chance. I’ve been waiting for that for years. That’s why I went back, why I got the second degree, because I had nothing else to do but try to get ready for this one thing. So I hop the first flight to LA. Buy a new tux. Go to the Gala. I’m so damn excited. Scared _and_ excited.”

Steve traces his fingers over the scars. “Yeah?”

“Well, he obviously didn’t know I was coming. He took one look at me… He was planning on doing it, I think. That wasn’t just my mom shining me on. She always did that, always tried to protect me and make things better, but this was more. Everyone said it. All the Board and the employees and everyone else. It was either the biggest rumor in the history of rumors, or he fully intended to go through with it until he saw _me._ And things changed, like seeing me was this… reminder. His actual legacy.” Tony tries to keep his tone light and even, but it’s not working. He shakes his head. “Announced right then and there that he’d be staying on until the day he died. Which he did.”

Steve’s blood goes cold, and his stomach knots. He doesn’t like where this is going. Tony heaves a breath. “Anyway, I did what I always did back then. Had a good time. Partied. Drank. Embarrassed the shit out of him. That was about the only thing about me he ever noticed. Drove myself home wasted and ended up wrapping one of his cars around a tree. It was a damn miracle that I walked away with only these.”

“God, Tony,” Steve whispers.

“He brought that car to the party. It was a really nice one, a Lamborghini. Fast and sleek and worth millions, and I smashed it to hell.” Tony pauses, and his eyes are glazed. His voice remains nonchalant, but Steve can see the pain even more now. “He didn’t even come to the hospital to chew me out, you know. No, I had to wait until they picked all the glass out of my chest and sewed me up and discharged me to have him tear me a new one. Which he did, in his own cold, arrogant, miserable way. He had me come into his office like some… some crappy employee or a disobedient kid being hauled in front of the principal. He didn’t scream. Didn’t shout. He just said he’d take care of it, that he was always taking care of it. Covering for my mistakes. Fixing what I broke. He said I wreck everything I touch.” Tony finally focuses, looking down on him. “That wasn’t the first time he told me that, and it certainly wasn’t the last.”

It’s quiet. Steve has no idea what to say. He had no idea something like this happened to Tony, that something like this could happen to Tony. Tony grunts, and his grin is bitter. “Funny thing is… About six months later? He’s walking away from a car accident himself, totally unscathed. Mom doesn’t. Guess there’s some irony in that, that he and I were both _so lucky_. He was driving. Not sure if he was drunk. I tried to find out, but if he was… There was never any evidence. He probably erased it just like that. With a phone call. Using some of his _connections_. There’s some really good irony in that, huh. Tears me down for wrecking things, but he can’t even admit it when he does the same. Just hides behind all his bullshit.”

“Tony–”

“You want to talk about rich assholes? My old man… The worst of them all.” Tony grins, shrugging. Steve swallows down a rock. “So that’s my war story. More like a sob story. That’s what rich boys have, right? Sob stories.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Tony just goes on. “Thing is, though… In the end, he lost. For what that’s worth. Time is a rather great arbiter of all things.”

Steve’s not exactly sure what Tony means. He’s still acting so dismissive and uncaring about it all, but it seems even more like a front now that Steve’s gotten another glimpse at what’s underneath. Before Steve can say a thing, Tony’s leaning down and kissing him. He takes Steve’s hands from his hips and pins them into the bed. “I’m thinking we do round two, huh?”

Steve can’t let this lie. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“For what? Making me wait all week to have you? Because I do blame that on your silly need to work and stay down here in this sweltering swamp instead of traveling the world with me.”

Steve wants to stop him and make him listen. It’s starting to become obvious why Tony never talks about himself. For being so outgoing and outspoken and handsy, he’s an incredibly private person. _Yet again_ , though, before he can say a thing, his phone starts ringing. Tony hops up off of him, naked as you please, and rifles through the mess of their clothes until he finds Steve’s shorts. Steve leans up. “You don’t have to–”

“Stay there, sweet-cheeks, because I am _not_ done with you yet.”

“Tony–”

“It’s cool. I can do the whole PA thing,” Tony replies cheekily, fishing in Steve’s pockets until he finds the phone. “I’ve watched Pepper. How hard can it be? Ugh. You are letting me get you a new phone and that’s final.” He thumbs the screen to answer the call and affects this terrible British accent, all jaunty and proper. “Mister Rogers’ answering service! Mr. Rogers is indisposed at the moment, but how may I be assistance to you today?”

Steve burns with a blush, wondering if he can just hide under his sheets forever. His embarrassment fades fast, though, when Tony’s smile slips. Then his expression tightens into a concerned frown, and he turns to Steve with hard eyes. Somehow Steve just knows. He _knows_. Who else would be calling him in the middle of the day when he’s supposed to be working?

The school.

And Tony looks like he’s about to flip his lid. “She did _what?_ ”

_Oh, no._

* * *

The weather changes with a drop of a hat here in Florida. The day started off bright and sunny, a really beautiful morning in early autumn, but by the afternoon thick, malicious clouds have rolled in from the ocean, and it’s threatening rain. Tony’s driving with his lead foot again. He hasn’t said much since they left the apartment, other than Maggie hit another child at school and is in the principal’s office. _Again_. Steve has no idea what to think about that. Tony’s pretty furious, and he’s not hiding it very well. He also basically manhandled his way into this predicament, not even asking if it’s okay for him to come along before he’s leading Steve out of his apartment and into his car. If Steve were more with it, he probably would have found the fact that he was so _involved_ with this already to be weird, maybe even a little presumptuous. As it stands, he’s so damn horrified that he’s glad to have someone else in control.

Until they get to Insight Elementary and inside the main office at least. Then he snaps out of his stupor. His stomach still feels like it’s a gaping maw threatening to suck him inside like a blackhole, but he finds that sense of calm, the one that always sees him through tough moments. “I’m here for Maggie Rogers,” he says to the lady in the front office.

She looks none too pleased, barely glancing up from a folder she’s examining. Steve doesn’t remember her from his last trip here, but he recognizes her voice from that phone call on the first day of school. “Have a seat. Doctor Pierce will be ready for you in a moment.”

He glances around, but he doesn’t see Maggie anywhere. Down the hall in the office, there’s a lady standing with a boy who must be older than Maggie by a few years (either that or he’s a heck of a bruiser). The kid looks scuffed up a little, shirt and shorts disheveled, and he’s got a big red splotch on the side of his face. He seems alright, but the mother is angry as hell, scowling and speaking in harsh, low tones to someone, and that has Steve even more worried. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” the secretary says curtly. “Please take a seat.”

Helpless and frustrated, he does. Tony’s not so inclined. “You called and told him to come right down, and you can’t be ready when we get here?”

Annoyed, the woman sighs and looks up. It’s clear she has no patience for anyone getting in her face about anything. “I’ll say it again: sit and wait.”

It’s also clear that Tony is not used to being treated like this. He looks powerful and demanding in his expensive suit, not at all rumpled or frazzled like he was in the middle of having sex when they were interrupted. Not at all like he’s out of his element. “Do you know who I am? Do you, dear? Because I’m getting the feeling that maybe you don’t realize who you’re dealing with here. Otherwise you wouldn’t be acting so freaking _rude_.”

The woman’s glare is cutting. Steve gets back up and takes Tony’s arm. “Tony, don’t. Come on.” Escalating the tension can’t possibly be the best approach, and it’s making him feel worse.

Thankfully Tony backs down. He doesn’t sit, though. He stands to Steve’s left, almost outside of the main office given how the seats are located close to the hallway, and very visibly broods. He’s stiff as a board. Steve braces his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together. Then he forces himself to take a deep breath. “Let me handle this,” he says very softly. He looks up at Tony. “Okay?”

It seems weird to be saying that. Again, it’s weird that Tony’s even _here._ They’ve only been dating for a month or so. Maggie’s not his responsibility. Plus he’s said over and over again that he has no experience with children, no capacity to “parent” (which is what he calls what Steve does every time Maggie does anything less mature, like whine or cry or do any of the million things that little kids do that cause trouble). Yet here he is, and he looks ready to breathe fire, and Steve knows that’s not the approach here. Maybe for Tony it makes sense because he’s rich and has power and people typically kowtow to him without hesitation, but that’s not going to work now.

Tony doesn’t look pleased with his request. Or sure. Or happy about that at all. But he seems to recognize that this isn’t really his place, and his tense expression loosens just a bit. He nods. Satisfied with that, Steve turns back to staring at the secretary’s desk. He takes another deep breath and resists the urge to fidget. He faced down terrorists and insurgents. He lost the love of his life and taught himself how to take care of a baby with basically no help and no money. He can handle this.

It helps that when Pierce comes out of his office to get them, all his disgust from their initial meeting a month ago comes stampeding back. The guy looks as humorless, stern, and cold as he did before. “Mr. Rogers,” he says. Already his tone is intimidating as he gestures to his open office.

Steve jumps to his feet and comes inside. He barely notices if Tony follows. He’s looking around the empty chairs. Miss Maximoff is there beside the principal’s desk, as well as a bald man with glasses and a nice suit who Steve doesn’t recognize, but that’s it. “Where’s Maggie?”

Pierce frowns as Tony enters the office. “Who’re you, sir?”

“Family friend,” Tony replies evenly. “It’s cool.”

That intimidating scowl becomes even more so. Even if he doesn’t recognize Tony, the presence of an unfamiliar party in a disciplinary meeting like this (plus one who’s obviously wealthy – Tony always exudes the amount of money he has with practically every breath he exhales for crying out loud) is probably off-putting. “This is a private matter.”

“It’s fine,” Steve cuts in. His anger is mounting. “Where’s Maggie?”

Pierce glares at Tony a moment more, scrutinizing him warily, before closing the door. “She’s with the school social worker. We thought it might be better to have this discussion without her present.” That sounds foreboding. Steve glances around at them. Miss Maximoff seems cowed; her face is pinched in this perpetual wince like she knows something bad is coming and she can’t do anything to stop it. The other guy just stares at him. He has a hint of that same condescending air that Pierce has. Pierce himself comes to sit at his huge, nice, oak desk. “Take a seat.”

The order’s not any more cordial or inviting, but Steve does just that. Again, Tony doesn’t, choosing instead to stand by the door like he’s a sentinel or as if his proximity to the exit suggests he has some power to end this should he want to. Steve shoots him another warning glance before turning back to the others. Pierce folds his hands together. “I trust the situation was explained to you.”

Steve chews a little at his cheek, darting another glance to Maggie’s teacher. Miss Maximoff doesn’t meet his gaze. “It was, and it sounds like a bigger kid was picking on a littler kid at recess, and Maggie got herself in the middle of it and protected the littler kid.”

“She struck another student,” the bald guy declares, not very kindly.

“This is Jasper Sitwell, by the way,” Pierce says, “our vice principal. Disciplinary actions typically fall to him.”

Steve glances at this Sitwell guy. Something about this feels very strange. “Is the other kid okay?”

“She hit him in the head with a book,” Sitwell answers instead. That must have been the boy he saw earlier with the big splotch on his face. Steve resists the urge to wince. “Luckily the injury was not serious, though the boy was pretty frightened and the mother displeased.”

“But he’s okay,” Steve declares.

Sitwell glowers. “Whether or not he’s okay isn’t the point. Neither is what he did or did not do that initiated the situation. We can’t condone fighting.”

Steve shakes his head. He can see where this is going. “I realize you can’t. And I’m trying to downplay what’s happened, but I want to be clear about the fact that this kid is _fine_ and the fact that he was bullying another kid and Maggie intervened. That’s how it went down, correct?”

Pierce’s taut frown goes even more so with barely restrained irritation. “Mr. Rogers–”

“Look, I’ve been in her situation before. And in the situation of the kid getting bullied. I’ve been there, and it’s been my experience that the one who’s causing all the trouble in the first place tends to get away because they didn’t hit or didn’t yell or didn’t do whatever it was that finally got the attention of the teacher.” He’s angry enough to be firm, because all of that’s very true. He’s lost track of the number of times he got picked on as a kid, that he stood up for other kids getting picked on, that he landed himself in hot water because of it. This is unpleasantly familiar. “Whatever Maggie’s punishment is, I trust this other kid – the one who was doing the bullying – will face something similar.”

Pierce and Sitwell glance at each other before Sitwell turns back to him. “The other child didn’t hit anyone.”

 _You’re making my point._ “He was picking on Sarah, Doctor Pierce,” Miss Maximoff adds in a quiet voice. “Pretty viciously. And that’s not the first time he’s done something like that.”

Aggravated, Pierce sighs. “We’re not here to discuss this boy’s behavior. We’re here to discuss Margaret’s lack of respect for our rules.” Behind Steve, Tony huffs an angry chuckle. Pierce glances at him and goes on. “She has not acclimated well to our expectations here at Insight Elementary. Her behavior continues to be troublesome and erratic.”

“Continues to be?” Steve shakes his head, blindsided. _What the hell…_ He looks to Miss Maximoff again. “Have there been more problems since the first day?”

Miss Maximoff grimaces even further, and she opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything, Pierce is thundering onward. “She’s emotionally immature. Talking out of turn. Unwillingness to engage on topics she deems beneath her or boring. Physically hitting another student. Her disrespect toward me.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek harder. “I haven’t been informed about any of this. Even still, she’s _five_.”

“Mr. Rogers, please. The problem is more complicated. We shouldn’t write off her behavior as something due to her age.” Pierce pauses and takes off his glasses. He leans back in his chair with a creak. “How do we resolve this?”

“What is there to resolve?” Steve asks. “I’ll ask again: what’s the punishment? She’ll do whatever she needs to, and I’ll talk to her about going to a teacher next time she spots someone getting picked on.”

Sitwell’s derisive look is all it takes for Steve to confirm exactly what he feared a few seconds ago: there’s something more going on here. “You know she could be expelled,” the man declares.

“Oh, please.” Tony takes a step closer. “Expelled? I hope not. But if every other first-time offender is expelled, then I guess fair is fair.”

Steve grits his teeth harder. “What are we really doing here? Just say what you want to say.”

Pierce stares at him a moment, clearly sizing him up. Steve’s dressed in his dirty work clothes from before. He needs a haircut, and his beard can stand for a trim. He’s got engine grease and dirt on his hands that never seems to come off. He knows what he looks like: a nobody. Still, he’s not backing down until Pierce explains.

Which he does. “Miss Maximoff believes that your child may be exceptional.”

Steve’s gut clenches. Again he looks to the teacher, but she’s still looking down, like she’s ashamed. _Shit._ He should have known. He asked them to get the point, and of course _this_ is the point. “Margaret may have talents that our curriculum can’t even begin to challenge. Her abilities in math in particular are well, _well_ above the level of instruction we can provide.” Pierce narrows his eyes. “Surely you’ve noticed this?”

That’s a loaded question. If he says no, he’s a terrible parent. What other implication can there be? If he says yes, he’s doing something underhanded, trying to saddle a public school with a child they can’t educate. “I have,” he finally admits, keeping his voice even. “I know she’s smart.”

Pierce is not impressed. “Far more than that, and there are special considerations that come with educating a child with a genius-level intellect. Their minds must be appropriately challenged or they can become bitter, angry, and resentful. They are prone to emotional instability, and their behavior issues and academic demands often prove to be a distraction for other students.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, come on. I think that’s overstating–”

“It’s not,” Pierce warns. “I very much believe that you should consider sending Margaret to a school that’s… more _appropriate_ for her.”

Miss Maximoff takes a tiny step closer. “Shield Academy is within driving distance. They have phenomenal programs to educate gifted individuals.”

Steve shifts again, heart beating faster. “Those phenomenal programs come with a huge price tag.”

“There are scholarship opportunities,” Pierce declares, and Miss Maximoff nods comfortingly. It’s clear what she desires out of this, though Steve doesn’t think that’s manipulative or mean-spirited. She simply wants what’s best for Maggie. And, perhaps in a way, Pierce does, as well. His weathered face finally abandons its scowl. He seems satisfied with what he’s about to say. “We can provide ways to subsidize her education so that you won’t feel the burden of paying. I wouldn’t offer that if I couldn’t make this happen. This is a one in a million opportunity, both for her and for you. They can prepare her for a lifetime of intellectual and academic excellence.”

That gives Steve pause. He stares at them, feels Tony behind him, thinks about it. _God._ Thinks about what it would mean for Maggie to get an education from somewhere that knows how to provide one to her. What a privilege that would be.

 _What a privilege._ And this ache swells inside him, the one he always feels when it comes to this. Taking something like that, putting her in a place like that… He sighs and looks down. “I realize that having her here may be a challenge. I’ve looked into Shield Academy and places like it. They’re great schools.” Pleased, Pierce nods. “But… I don’t think putting her in a place that’s constantly reinforcing to her that she’s not _normal_ is a good idea. She’s different. Trust me, she knows that. And there’s more to school – more to being a kid and growing up – than a privileged education. Than being groomed to be something with no choice about whether or not you _want_ to be that something. That’s why…” He gives a little shrug. “This is the best place for her.”

This expression of utter confusion passes across Pierce’s face. He glances at Miss Maximoff, who seems perplexed herself, before turning increasingly irate eyes back to Steve. “Mr. Rogers–”

“You can’t hit people,” Steve says, “but a big kid bullies a little kid and she stands up? Do you have any idea how important it is to me that she did that? Do you know how proud I am? School’s about teaching kids to be people, right, about helping them figure out how to do the right thing. Isn’t that something good about this?”

“There’s nothing _good_ about any of this,” Pierce coldly retorts.

“Where I come from, who I am… Learning how to be a decent person is far more important than learning anything Shield Academy has to teach her.”

Pierce leans forward again. “And where do you come from, Mr. Rogers?” There’s a dark, chilly gleam to Pierce’s eyes as he looks Steve over again, likely coming to the obvious conclusion: how in the world could a prodigy like Maggie have come from someone like him? The question hangs there, unanswered, and behind Pierce Miss Maximoff shifts uncomfortably. Despite her discontent, despite how cold and blunt it is, Pierce goes right in for the proverbial kill. “Where is Margaret’s mother? What does she think about this?”

Tony’s been quiet this whole time, so much so that Steve’s almost forgotten he’s there. Now he pipes up, and he’s mad. “Wow. This whole time you kept skirting it, but now you have official stepped over the line, asshole.”

Pierce’s eyes flick to him. “And why are you here again? Oh. Maybe it’s obvious. A friend of the family.” He almost sneers that. “Clearly.”

Steve can feel Tony losing his temper at the implication and the judgmental vitriol that’s clearly behind it. He stands right away and puts himself between Pierce and Tony. He has pleading eyes for Tony, a warning look to which Tony barely yields, before turning back to Pierce. “Look, I wish I could accept your offer; I do appreciate it. And I’m sorry about this whole thing, but Maggie stays. She stays unless you expel her.”

Pierce stands as well. “This is outrageous. We’ll never be able to raise this child to the level of scholarship she deserves!”

Part of Steve certainly aches at that. Part of him worries, always worries. But a larger part, the part tethered to himself and to Peggy and everything she asked of him, holds firm. “I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to treat her like you would any other kid. Be fair, both with the good and the bad, because if we segregate the privileged from normal folks, if we take them and tell them they’re special and the normal rules don’t apply, we end up with elitists. We end up with Congressmen and CEOs. We end up with people who don’t understand the value of strength, who have no compassion.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t want that for her.”

A long, awkwardly silent moment passes. Everyone seems pretty shocked, even Tony, who’s standing behind him. Steve’s got a restraining hand on his arm, and he felt Tony stiffen just a bit while he was talking. He forces himself to go on before he loses his nerve. “So once you figure out what the punishment should be, please let me know and I’ll get on enforcing it right away. Otherwise, thanks for the meeting.”

That’s the end. Steve turns toward the door, but he doesn’t get more than a step. “Mr. Rogers, this is an incredible mistake,” Pierce calls after him. “You are doing your daughter a serious injustice! We cannot be responsible for this child’s future.”

“It’s really going to be fine,” Tony says, finally going all in. “Just do the same second-rate job with her that I’m sure you do with all your other kids. Mediocre and exceptional average out to ordinary, right?”

The response is pretty much what one would expect. Pierce is almost right in Tony’s face, and it’s clear he’s not backing down. “You know, I do recognize you,” he says tautly. “I have no idea what your business is here, and I don’t care. I have been a school administrator for over thirty years. I _know_ what is best for that girl and what’s best for this school. Unruly behavior stems from boredom. Do you think this will be the end of her discipline issues? We can’t _handle_ her, and to insist that we can… It’s _negligent_.” Steve cringes at that word. It hurts to hear, hurts to understand, turns his blood to ice, sinks into his heart like poison. Pierce’s frown gets impossibly harder. “That is the truth, and you won’t intimidate me.”

“You want intimidation? How about I sic a fleet of lawyers on you,” Tony says, and there’s nothing at all veiled about that threat. A flash of worry crosses Pierce’s face, and Tony grins like a predator. “Oh, yeah. I can and I will. This is a public school. Maggie is entitled to an education here. Plus that stunt you just pulled? You stepped in it big time. My friend’s personal situation isn’t _any_ of your business. You try pressuring him again into something he doesn’t want to do, you won’t know what hit you.”

Pierce’s jaw clenches, and that weaker moment vanishes. His eyes narrow dangerously. It takes everything Steve has not to grimace. “Tony,” he calls, hoping that’ll be enough to get him moving.

It is, but only after Tony spends another endless moment glaring down the other man. For his own part, Pierce doesn’t give an inch. Tony’s feral smile eases into a smugger one. “Have a nice day,” he bids in an amicable tone, and then he turns on his heel and walks out of the office. He pauses just a second by the door where Steve’s waiting to take his arm and pull him along.

Out in the hallway, Steve’s strength cracks. He can feel his cheeks burning, his shirt cling to cold sweat on his back, his lungs ache with worry. He wants to bolt, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns to Tony. “Can you wait for us outside?”

Tony frowns. “Look, don’t let them–”

“Please.”

For what feels like a long time, Tony searches his face, clearly looking for something, probably some sign that he’s okay. Steve doesn’t feel okay in the slightest. “I’ll get the car,” Tony finally says, and he turns and heads down the hallway back out of the main office.

Steve stands there and watches him go. Then he puts his hands on his hips, breathing deeply and shaking his head. _Shit._ All his certainty melts like ice cream under the sun, a pitiable, useless glop that doesn’t do much other than make you feel sad. He shakes himself free of that and marches down the hallway of the area, checking all the offices until he finds the one that has a label for the school social worker. The door, which is adorned in smiling faces and other kid art, is shut, so he knocks on it, and when there’s a murmur from within, he opens it.

Maggie is right there in a chair by the door. She’s obviously terrified, and the second she sees him, her eyes fill with tears. Grabbing her backpack, she hops down and runs to him. The school social worker doesn’t look pleased as she stands at her desk. Her face is pinched in worry. “Mr. Rogers, maybe you and I can talk about Maggie when you get a chance.”

“Not today,” he says, protectively tucking Maggie into his side.

The woman appears even more concerned. “Is it alright if I call you?”

Does he even have a choice? He’s not sure, so he nods and walks away, keeping Maggie tight to him. He can feel Maggie shaking just a bit against him. She’s probably crying, but he doesn’t slow down. He needs to get out of here.

Outside thunder’s grumbling, and a few fat drops of rain are splattering on the concrete of the walk up to the school. Steve forgot it was about to storm, and now he frowns at the ominous clouds overhead. “Damn it,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie murmurs where she’s still tucked into his leg. Rain hits his nose, and he looks down to see her looking up at him with wet eyes. “Am I in big trouble?”

The sky’s becoming darker by the second, and he feels like the answer can only be yes.

* * *

By the time they get back home, the thunderstorm’s already blown through. It turns out to be not much more than an angry blip in an otherwise beautiful day. The storm thunders in, thunders out, and everything’s back to normal, like it never happened at all.

It’s really too bad life can’t be that way.

They’re sitting in the living room of the apartment. The whole ride home, Maggie squished into what passes for the backseat in Tony’s car, was utterly silent. That was evidence enough of how upset Maggie was, the fact that Tony’s here early and she’s not bouncing off the walls with excitement. She sat back there without saying a word, staring out the window with her face caught between a pout and tears. Now she’s on the couch next to Steve, a solid couple feet between them, and they’re both tense and miserable. Tony’s pacing. The three of them have been like this since they got back, minutes and minutes ago, and Steve has no idea how to stop it or what to do to make it better.

Eventually Tony stops wearing a hole through Steve’s rugs and sighs in exasperation. “Okay, this is dumb. Are we just going to sit here like this?” Steve looks at him a moment, catches his frustrated eyes. He’s wringing his hands on his knees. Tony shakes his head. “Steve, parent.”

A bitter grunt gets out before Steve can stop it. _Like it’s so easy._ Beside him, Maggie senses his irritation and deflates. She seems very small. “It’s not fair. I was just trying to stop him,” she murmurs. She hasn’t really looked at the Steve this whole time since the school. Steve doesn’t know if she’s too ashamed or too angry. Or both. “He keeps calling Sarah names, and Sarah’s too scared to stand up for herself. He’s a _bully._ ”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to hit,” Steve replies firmly. “You could have hurt that kid.” His temper frays anew when he thinks of that boy’s mother, angry and causing a scene, not that she _did_ but she can and she still may. And everything Pierce said comes rushing back. “And you have to be careful! Maggie, they want to kick you out of that school. They still might! Do you have any idea how bad that would be? How much trouble we’d be in? Where else can you go, huh? _Where?_ ”

Now she does turns to him. Her eyes are full of furious tears. “You’re always telling me to do the right thing! You said I need to care about the other kids!”

That takes Steve aback. He doesn’t know why. He has said that, recently in fact. Staring at her, he manages to pull in a deep breath, and that calms his rattled nerves. “I know I said that. I’m not mad at you for trying to help someone else. I would never be mad about that.”

Maggie’s not appeased. Tears slip from her eyes. “Bucket says you got into fights all the time. He says you got an award for fighting.”

 _Of course._ Steve glances at Tony, but Tony just shrugs. Despite everything, the corner of his mouth is turned up into a quirk of a grin. Steve sighs again. “Yeah, I did.” He takes Maggie’s arm and pulls her closer. That distance is nothing but painful now, and he can’t stand it anymore. She resists a little at first, but it doesn’t last, and pretty soon she’s melding into his side like always, and he’s rubbing her back. “But you’re smarter than I am, which means you have to fight smarter, and that means not hitting other kids to get your point across.”

She sniffles. “He’s so mean.”

“I know. People can be.”

“And he had it coming. He called me a freak.”

Steve stops rubbing. He looks down at the brown head tucked into him. “Why?”

“Because I know stuff,” is the mumbled response into his shirt. “Knowing stuff makes me a freak.”

The living room grows quiet, painfully so. This… _ache_ settles into Steve’s chest, just like that. “How long has this been going on?” Small shoulders shrug. That means more than just today. “Maggie – Mags. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you already worry so much.”

The ache gets so much worse. Steve bites his lip until it hurts. Helpless, he looks up to Tony, but Tony’s already coming over. He crouches in front of them. “Hey, Magpie, what say I take us out to dinner? NockingPoint?”

Steve can feel her peek out from his flank. “It’s not dinnertime.”

“Then lunch.”

A grunt. “Too late for lunch.”

“Then let’s hit the beach for a bit. Check out the ocean? The shells?”

That has Maggie perking up. Steve grimaces. “Tony, I don’t know.”

Tony rises slightly to gaze into Steve’s eyes. “Come on. What else are you going to do? Sit here and feel lousy all night? Beat yourself up for something that’s not your fault? That’s not her fault either? People aren’t just mean. They’re assholes.”

Steve frowns. “Tony–”

“And you’re going to let them ruin our night.” He blows out a breath with a _pfft_ sound. All his anger and agitation from the school is just gone, and now he’s airy and cheery. Light and carefree. “Dumb, Like I said. So let’s _go._ ”

It does seem stupid, even if that’s what he feels like he _should_ do. Strip all the other facets of this away, Maggie did break a serious rule. It doesn’t matter if he broke those same rules as a kid. He wants _more_ for her. It’s not acceptable. Hurting other people – even the jerks and bullies and assholes – isn’t acceptable. Period.

But… What he said to Pierce is true, too. She’s only five. The whole reason she’s going to school is to learn to socialize better, to have friends and learn to be a normal kid. Normal kids make mistakes. Normal kids fight. Normal kids have to learn to deal with the bad stuff in the world.

And, frankly, it’s true: if he saw a bully picking on someone else, he would have done the same. Thus he pushes away the awful ache inside and sighs. “Alright.”

So they go to the beach. They take Tony’s car again; there’s a fleeting thought in Steve’s mind that at some point they need to grab his truck, but he’s too tired to say it. By the ocean, the air’s cooler, sweeter, thanks to the storm. Most of the puddles and wet spots are gone, though the sky’s still slate gray where the bad weather’s rumbling in the distance. The second they head out onto the sand, Maggie’s spirits rise from the dead. She’s grabbing Tony’s hand and dragging him down to the dunes where they usually sit. There are tall beach reeds there, sandpipers and willets and gulls among them, and shells in abundance. She’s laughing and playing, and Tony’s laughing and playing right along with her.

Steve’s not. He lags behind, watching as Maggie gathers shells with her bucket. She likes to create patterns with them, always has, only now she’s got Tony helping her. Steve stands off to the side, listening as they build a loop from the shells and chat about something called a Möbius strip and how it can be used in resistors to cancel out an electronic circuit’s own inductive resistance. Maggie’s bright and happy, arranging shells into her usual complex, symmetrical patterns, talking science and technology with Tony like nothing happened at all. Like she can finally be comfortable. Like he’s her only friend.

Thinking that makes him feel worse. _Negligent._ He keeps going back to that word. It was low and mean, an unfair indictment of his choices, a weapon wielded against him as a parent, and he knows that. But it hurt, a slap to the face that’s still stinging a couple hours later. No, it’s more than that. A war wound. A scar. He looks out over the gray and blue expanse of the ocean, at the waves gently lapping the shore as they endlessly roll and swell and crest and recede only to do it again. For this moment, he lets himself be tired.

“You okay?”

He turns to see Tony’s right beside him and wonders how long he was staring uselessly at the water. Maggie’s still back by their shell art, building more and singing to herself. Still happy and contented, and he’s still anything but. “Not really. Failed as a parent in pretty much every respect today.”

“Hardly.” Tony presses up to his side, turning his gaze out to the water. He’s got his sunglasses on, and he’s taken his shoes and socks off and rolled up his pants and shirt sleeves. He seems so calm and untouchable. Relaxed in his invincibility. “Don’t worry about that asshole. He’s a bully clearly teaching a school full of bullies.” Steve gives a little smile to that. “You know how people are with their fiefdoms. I get that all the time.” Tony cocks his head a little. “Of course, the fiefdoms in my world are usually multi-million dollar corporations, but the principle still applies.”

“I’m sorry about what I said back there.”

Tony frowns. “What you said?”

“About CEOs,” Steve answers. He’s not sure why he’s bringing this up. His head is in such a haze. “I didn’t mean it.”

It’s obvious Tony’s not following. Then his expression softens a bit. “Oh. That.” He gives half a shrug. “Well, you’re not wrong.” Steve opens his mouth, because he wants to say that he _is_ wrong, because Tony’s not like that, but Tony’s already saying more. “But the thing is… I’m not sure they’re wrong, either.”

That cuts right to the crux of it, the miserable disquiet that’s been brewing inside Steve since the meeting at the school. That he’s feeling even more after finding out Maggie’s already getting picked on for being smart. That she’s _been_ picked on for days, if not weeks. He bites the inside of his lower lip and looks down. “You think I’m making a mistake, too.”

Tony’s expression is torn. He hems and haws for a second. “I don’t know. It’s not like I’m any kind of expert, not in education or in kids. But I went to those schools, the ones that cater to the super smart.”

“And wealthy,” Steve adds softly.

Tony has to concede that. “And the wealthy. And they exist for a reason. Public school isn’t meant for kids who are like Maggie. It’s like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. It’s not going to go.”

“I’m not trying to be argumentative here, but I highly doubt you ever went to public school.”

Tony blushes a little. Again, he has to concede the point. He sighs. “Steve, she’s not just smart. She’s… she’s _way_ beyond smart.” Steve feels himself grimace again, and he looks down at his old, worn sneakers. “I didn’t realize when we first got together just how much more. We’re not talking about a high IQ. We’re talking about–”

“I know. I guess I just didn’t understand what it meant until now.” That’s becoming abundantly apparent. This idea he’s always had, that Maggie’s smarter than kids her age… It’s been okay to leave it at that, to just tell Maggie not to make a big deal about it. He’s never thought more of it. He’s never realized that hiding it so as not to draw unwanted attention wasn’t going to be adequate. If there’s negligence on his part, maybe it’s that, it’s turning a blind eye to this situation. He looks back over the ocean. “I always kinda figured it was enough to just get through this, you know? Just put my head down and stay low and keep going. Soldier on. It’s not like I’ve ever known what to do. I just figure it out as I go. She needs something, I get it for her. She wants to play, so I do. She’s hurt, and I put a band-aid on it. She’s growing, so I buy her new clothes.” He shakes his head. “She needs to go to school, so I send her.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. We gifted folk are high maintenance.” Steve smiles at that, shaking his head just a bit. It gets quiet, save for the birds squawking and the waves swishing against the sand and Maggie belting out Lady Gaga. Then Tony says what Steve’s been waiting for him to say since they left the school, for the past month if he’s honest. “If it’s the money, I can help. You know I can.”

“It’s not the money.” Now Steve has to concede the truth. “It’s not only the money.”

“Steve–”

“When Peggy was with me,” he starts with a long, pained breath. “When she came to me right before Maggie was born… She kept telling me how good it felt.”

“To be with you?”

Steve stares at where the horizon meets the sea. “To be free. To not have her parents running her life. To have dreams. Peggy didn’t have dreams growing up. She didn’t have friends. She didn’t go to school, not really. She didn’t have a career. Her life was pre-ordained, laid for her from the moment she was born. She never had a chance to choose _anything_ for herself, at least not beyond me. So she _chose_ to come to me. She chose to leave that world. She wanted to be able to decide things for herself, to be a normal woman. Have a normal life.”

Tony frowns just a bit. “What’s it mean to be normal?”

The question seems rhetorical, but Steve thinks about it anyway. To be honest, Steve’s never considered it much. He’s always just assumed “normal” is not the life Peggy had, this gilded cage in which she was raised. A bird with her wings constantly clipped. Peggy never had to tell him how profoundly unhappy she was. He could see it in how _thrilled_ she was to be with him in Brooklyn those few weeks. To him it was nothing special, his crappy apartment and cheap food and rundown things and barely getting by, but to her… Away from the weight of the wealth and the titles and the _privilege_. _“For the first time in my life, I feel like I know my value.”_ She said that laying in his bed one night, sweeping her hands over her pregnant belly, over the baby inside her. _“And she’ll know hers, too.”_

Eyes stinging just a bit, Steve looks down. “She wanted Maggie to have that, to be free. To have a chance at being a kid.” He lets go of another long breath. “That’s why I feel like she’s gotta be where she is.”

The logic behind that… Doing what Peggy would have wanted. Honoring Peggy’s sacrifices. Her wishes and her memories. That feels strong to him, but there’s a part of him that knows it may not be. It could be certainty conflated with wishful thinking. He’s not so arrogant as to think he’s incapable of being wrong. He never has been, and right now, now that he’s really examining the reasons, he’s wondering how much he’s let his own wishes drive his decisions. How maybe he’s focused on what’s best for him rather than what’s best for Maggie. Bucky was concerned with his choice to send Maggie to public school. So was Natasha. And he was, too. He convinced himself it was okay, made himself believe it, and now he’s doubting all over again. This issue he thought was settled has been ripped open anew, and he doesn’t know what to think anymore. He can’t unlearn and unhear and unsee what’s been put right in front of him.

Thankfully, Tony doesn’t press or question. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to think either, but he just stands there and lets the topic go. He reaches down between them and takes Steve’s hand, weaving their fingers together and holding tight. Then he kisses Steve’s shoulder and leans into his side. For a bit, it’s quiet. Maggie’s still frolicking behind them, and the birds are still calling. The waves roll in and out. It’s comforting now, with Tony there.

“You should have let me kick that guy’s ass.” That makes Steve chuckle. Tony wraps his other arm around Steve’s waist and laments more. “If not physically then with lawyers. Really good lawyers. I know some senators, too. Congressmen. I could probably have him fired by the end of business tomorrow, him and his little bald henchman. It’s not too late. I still can.”

“Not sure that would solve anything,” Steve murmurs into Tony’s hair. “Pierce seems like the type to hold a grudge.” Most bullies do.

“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t win. Trust me.” _I do._ That truth settles deep into Steve’s core. It’s soothing, like that cool, sweet breeze off the water, and it quiets his other misgivings. Tony kisses his shoulder again, right over that silly Captain America tattoo. “Well, barring opening a can of whoop-ass on the public education system in this county, is there anything else I can do to make this better? Whisk you guys away for a weekend maybe?” That Cheshire-cat grin is back. “Get your mind off things? Because, and I have to be honest, babe, I can feel you worrying. It’s palpable. You’re worrying and overthinking and brooding. That’s like your super power. Captain America’s super power: driving himself crazy with worrying.” Steve chuckles again. Tony kisses his neck. “I can have us up there by dinnertime, you know. Already have the jet at the airport. And in New York… You don’t have to think about _any_ of this. It’ll be a vacation. All these problems will be a thousand miles away, and you can rest.”

That same feeling comes over him, that slightly drunk sensation that he’s tipping and falling. He doesn’t fight it this time. He doesn’t want to. That happiness he’s been cherishing these last few weeks… He wants that so badly. “Okay.”

“What?” Tony leans back in surprise. “Okay?”

Steve offers a weak grin. “You always seem so shocked when I agree to do what you want.”

“Well, _yeah,_ because you have morals and scruples, and you’re clearly abandoning them yet again. For me. Not that I totally agree with said morals and scruples, but–”

“Tony.” Steve pulls away to look at him directly. “I want to go to New York with you. I really do.”

The unabashed glee on Tony’s face is all it takes for the last of Steve’s reservations to die. “Oh, you will not regret this. I’m going to spoil you rotten. Treat you like you deserve, Steve Rogers, you beautiful, beautiful man. I’m going to – wait, is Maggie coming?”

“If you want.”

Tony beams. “If _I_ want?” Then he’s pulling away and jogging back across the beach, proclaiming loudly that he has good news, a really good surprise, that the NockingPoint’s off the menu because they’re _going to New York City._ Tonight! Predictably, Maggie explodes with excitement, and Steve smiles and watches the two of them quickly gather up their things and chatter like crazy. As they run hand in hand to Tony’s car, he knows one thing at least, and he knows this with certainty.

Maggie needs Tony, and he’s going to do everything he can to get her what she needs.


End file.
